Amost August: Still Weird

Luna moth above the kitchen door. Yes, my house is stained black. On purpose.

Almost  August. Garden update. State of the world – hmpf, we’ll see.

So the green beans have finally started producing, and the yellow beans are barely starting, but coming. Peas are done except for a few foolish individual vines still growing green and producing flowers way up the vine, while being yellow and dried up below. I left them because, well, snacking when I’m doing other stuff in the garden.

Fava beans this year just plain suck (technical term). So do the winter squashes and pumpkins, which are yellowish and whiney in their new field beds between the peach trees. There are two volunteers just outside the compost bins, however – planted by some critter who dragged the guts out and left it – that look lush and lovely. No flowers yet.

The corn experiment is not a great one. A few stalks – about mid-thigh high, which for you non-gardeners, is a pitiful height, they should be towering over my head by now and all tasseling – have tasseled. I blame it on the water situation, but who knows? Everything is weird this year. A friend just started picking peas – his green beans came in before the peas. Go figure.

The heron decided to spend the summer on the wart.

One of the tomato plants that had disappeared has reappeared, and no, I can’t explain that. The three plants that arrived too soon this spring that I had to up-pot and up-pot and move from sun patch to sun patch for weeks, are the only ones a normal size, and from one I’ve plucked three ripe tomatoes – so thank you for that monumentally stupid shipping date, mail-order nursery.  The other tomato plants are mostly… let’s say struggling. They might produce a little fruit, but I don’t have much hope for the six that are still only 18 inches high. Unless we have a wicked long, warm fall, that is.

Replanted carrots have germinated and need thinning; replanted beets not so much. Basil that didn’t germinate and didn’t germinate finally did after a recent rain; ditto my scarlet runner beans, which I have little hope for this year. Okra’s short, but seems relatively happy. No morning glory has done much more than sprout. We have webworm in the cherry and pear tree, and in some of the blueberries. The amaranth is getting there, slowly. Of all the five entire packages of sunflower seed I planted this year, about six plants actually germinated, and they’re 4-6 inches tall. The volunteers from spilled seed from  last year’s planting have taken over one bed, and while they aren’t as tall as they should be, they are blooming. And pretty. And completely in the way.

Sage in bloom, Johnny Jump Ups helping.

For the first time in years I planted a cucumber plant in the garden instead of in a pot, and it’s clearly much happier that way. We’ve had a few nice cukes, and the plant doesn’t whine anywhere near as much as its potted predecessors did. Summer savory is everywhere, making little bushes. I love summer savory, it’s better even than basil on sliced tomatoes. 

One small patch of nigella seed (Love in a Mist) has grown and is flowering; the cosmos and calendula and bachelor’s buttons and Love Lies Bleeding are struggling, and they’re usually hale and hearty.  Bleeding Heart was lovely, earlier, and Johnny-Jump-Ups and creeping dianthus have bloomed, been pulled or trimmed, and are starting again. Three daffodils, which were late blooming, are still greenly vigorous; and no, I can’t explain that, either.

Wildflowers are fine, and the fields are full of blooming thyme, so have a purple haze to them; the heather in front of the house is also in full bloom. Lilies are doing well enough, but Iris weren’t as happy as usual, and poppies went by quickly, which the Bee Balm is also doing. My one zucchini plant isn’t really producing much; the one summer squash is doing better. Raspberries, surprising for such a dry year, were prolific and tasty and I’ve never seen them so loaded with berries; blueberries are also very loaded and ripening well. Near the blueberries, there’s a nest of hatchlings and two angry parents in the birdhouse on the arch – we get scolded regularly if they feel they can take time between the exhausting trips to feed their shouting offspring. 

Some gorgeous golden butterflies covered the Bee Balm one day.

Buzzy Boy’s missing his scarlet runner beans, but I keep his feeders topped up well, and he’s taken to speeding right over my head through the wart tent any time I’m out there trying to snap beans or do some other chore. He’s chased me in from the garden at dusk a few times, too, but this year seems to be the year of really fast, shoulder and head fly-bys. Over, and over, and over again. I love Buzzy, but he can be fairly intimidating when he wants to be.

Gardens are weird, every year, but this year the garden’s even weirder than usual. Sort of like life.  And the freaks in government who keep getting weirder and weirder. 

But now it’s time to go pick more green beans to store in the freezer for winter. About mid-January, I’ll be glad of them. Today – not so much!

 

Above photos: the Polish poet witch up the hill, through the woods, asked a local artisan to make her a Little Library, which she installed near her pond for neighbors to enjoy.

 

For the blog: herondragonwrites.blogspot.com, 31 July 2020

All photos Deb Marshall

Unnecessary Risks

 

I was having a discussion, the other day, about what the proper response is to someone who’s strolling around in the same space you’re in, all confident and proud of themselves for not wearing a mask; and should that response be any different if the confident proud jerk is a relative? Or a dear, dear friend?

We were trying to figure out why people we know to be reasonably intelligent, capable of reading, of following not-too-difficult explanations, who are generally concerned about the health and well-being of their family and friends, who are otherwise generous, kind, thoughtful individuals, why would they make the bizarre decision to ignore all the advice from the experts, and wander around in public spaces not wearing a mask, spreading their respiratory droplets everywhere and potentially infecting dozens or more of total strangers and their own friends and relatives, and happily sucking into their lungs the respiratory droplets of everyone else who is, or has been, in their general vicinity not wearing a mask. A mask isn’t harmful; the decision doesn’t make sense on any level; and it’s an inherently selfish, self-centered act, as well as a self-destructive act, and an aggressive act towards the rest of us. So – why?

We decided it’s not something we can understand. It’s as if some people we know have become insane. Dangerously insane.

If you ask them, they mutter – or shout – some nonsense about rights. And sometimes they add scarier nonsense about plots, and lies, and politics and - yes, I’ve even heard aliens – that have nothing to do with the health crisis we’re all facing. And beliefs – apparently they don’t believe in this particular invisible thing, even though they believe in other invisible things – like cold germs, and dust mites, and vitamins, and deities, and their own essential correctness.

So, briefly, here’s what I have to say about “rights,” as in “no one has the right to tell me I have to wear a mask.” You who are rights people would be more believable if you walked around naked, too. The law-makers have taken away your right to be nekkid in public, for no better reason than that they think it’s immoral and gross, and you don’t seem to care about that – so why do you think that legal requirement to wear something is ok, but think that wearing a mask, for public health reasons, is a requirement no one should force on you? How about the “right” to drive your car on the wrong side of the road, which has been taken away from you for public health reasons? How about your “right” to defecate in public, which has been taken away from you for public health reasons?  There is no difference except that currently, most lawmakers are hoping you’ll do the right thing without them having to make a law about wearing masks for public health reasons.

Those of you who are convinced that masks are destroying your health or are part of a secret plot to  - I don’t know what, something totally crazy – or are alien-ordered commands, or whatever other wacky thing you’ve bought into: I don’t even want to talk to you people, you’re insane. Go someplace private and live free and die, probably horribly and slowly, drowning in your own mucus. You’re delusional, paranoid and mentally ill, and what more is there to say except that you’re putting the rest of us in danger with your delusions and while I hope you’re mostly functional in your daily lives, if these are the reasons you aren’t wearing masks in public places, you should be removed from public places for our safety and yours.

Mask scoffers are a public danger. Just because we, as a society, still haven’t yet found the ethical and moral will to legislate safety measures doesn’t make the scoffers less dangerous. Just because we have a President who has shit for brains doesn’t make him or them less dangerous. The danger is not something that is true or false depending on your opinion, or your political bent, or how you feel about it today. It’s a fact. Say it out loud: Mask scoffers are a public health danger.

So what do those of us who are still clear-headed do when confronted with people who are doing something very dangerous to us, our friends, our loved ones, to perfectly innocent strangers? Do we not say anything because we don’t want to offend the dangerous people, or be rude to strangers?

I think we have to say something. It’s not like what they’re doing could possibly be dangerous later, maybe. What they’re doing is DANGEROUS RIGHT NOW. They don’t know if they’re carrying or spreading the virus; we don’t know if they are. They don’t know if we’ll get just a little sick if we catch it from them, or a lot. They don’t know if we’ll make other people very sick if we catch it from them. They don’t know. We don’t know. THEY DON’T KNOW.

If someone was in a grocery store playing with fire, but they hadn’t set anything on fire yet, would you just walk by? If someone were in the post office, spraying a toxic chemical into the air, but no one had vomited or passed out or died yet, would you just go about your business and hope for the best? How about if there were 10 people doing that dangerous thing? How about 50? And they assured you they weren’t actually going to set anything on fire or get the toxic chemical in someone’s lungs?

The more people going into public places maskless, the more dangerous it becomes. The danger in a small enclosed space can be quite high with only one or two maskless people in it. In a large enclosed space, the danger gets higher and higher the number of dangerous people are in it. For people who work in those spaces, the risk becomes very, very high, because they’ll be in those spaces breathing the virus those unmasked social pariahs spewed into the enclosed atmosphere for hours and hours.

We have to speak. We have to let those people know that what they’re doing isn’t OK with us, that they’re the non-normal, that they’re in the wrong. They need to hear that we don’t want to take the risk they’re forcing on us. If we don’t speak, it just amplifies and justifies what they’re doing, in their minds. We need to shame them. We need to point out that they’re being selfish, and self-centered, and dangerous. That what they’re doing is our business, because they’re putting us, and our relatives, and our friends, and all the strangers who will pass through the space where they’ve spewed their droplets at potentially serious risk of catching a very serious illness for hours to come.

Covid is very contagious. We know now that more people catch it from respiratory droplets than from hard surfaces, and we know now that the droplets travel further than we thought, and if the conditions are right, can stay airborne much longer than we thought. We know now that it can cause health issues that affect all our organs, which can stay with us for years or a lifetime, even if we don’t get the killing version of the disease.  And we know now that what we don’t know or understand yet about this virus is big.

So speak up. Tell those selfish, self-centered social pariahs to put on a mask. Tell them to grow a conscience. Tell them that the aggressive act they’re committing – not wearing a mask – IS your business. Glare at them. Snarl. Make the evil-eye sign at them. Don’t just walk past them. Try not to call them dick-heads, even though they are.  Repeat shame, shame, shame at them, through your mask.

And do we treat our relatives who are those people with more care?

This is hard, but I don’t think so. Just because they belong to us doesn’t make them less dangerous.  In lots of ways it makes them more dangerous, because they’re going to expect you to go along with them, because you love them. But if they won’t wear a mask, they don’t love you enough to protect you. 

So speak up. And don’t go to the birthday parties, or the family reunions, or Thanksgiving, or Christmas if your mask-scoffing relatives are going to be there, if the celebration is inside, or people can’t keep a distance. Because you don’t know what virus they’re carrying around with them, spewing it all over their family. When you’re with your family or dear friends, you’re apt to be spending a lot of time – talking, eating, singing, laughing, shouting, maybe even hugging and kissing. More than enough time to inhale enough virus to make you ill.

WE DON’T KNOW  WHAT THEY’RE SPEWING. THEY DON’T KNOW.

And if they cared for you as much as for themselves, they’d wear the mask.

For the blog, 18 July 20. Yes, that's poison ivy.

Our Broken Hearts

 

For the last three years of his life, Catmandoo was a dog. He changed his name to CatmanDog, and wouldn’t answer to anything else. He did dog things – peed on strangers’ tires, herded gaggles of wild turkeys out of the yard and glared them down, scared deer out of the yard, went for short rides in the car, terrorized and chased dogs who foolishly entered his space – even ones he’d known for years and never held any bad feelings towards.

 

He was bigger than most small dogs, both in weight and in length, and had the attitude of a (mostly benevolent) Lord of the Universe. On July 2^nd, his current reign came to an end, after nearly 19 years. His kidneys had failed, and he told me he was done. He’s now buried in our animal cemetery plot, next to a nice patch of catnip, next to Bunny, my white cat who he helped nurse through his last days by bringing him freshly-killed mice to eat, and flanked by the Barkie Boys, who finally agreed to let me bury their ashes in the plot now the third dog was there. On one side, there’s the blueberry plot. On the other, the Gryphon and the Dragon – now all the dogs are together again and fiercely guarded – and, probably, guarding.

We, on the other hand, are still crying and lonely.

Big dogs have big personalities, and even before Catman became a Dog, he was a Dude – handsome, mostly benign, opinionated, and in control. Not overly bright, but wicked clever – there was not a cat harness or dog harness that he couldn’t get out of in 3 seconds flat, without a struggle. He disciplined errant dogs by smacking them across the snoot with his big paws – loudly, one could hear the smack from the next room - but never used a claw – and maintained discipline by passing the Boys on the stairs to bed, then sitting on a step half-way up and daring them to go past him. They never did.

He was gentle with the other cats in the house, and allowed Beastreau (who I call Biscuit), the little black stray who he was at least twice as big as, to stick her head under his chin when he was eating and steal food. He always looked surprised and shocked that she’d dare try it – because no one dared be that rude to the Dude; but he also always let her do it. In return, she’d spend hours licking his head for him, which he loved. NO ONE got to touch his flanks, but his head – and his elegant mane – was a loved scritchy brushy licky spot. I brushed his mane regularly, and he’d lift his massive snoot straight up in the air so I could get at the part under his chin and on his chest, purring, purring, purring very quietly. Touch the flanks, however, and get bit. Mama, however – that’s me – was able to nibble the edges of his ears. He liked that.

Catman was a Maine coon cat, with tufted ears, a long snoot, a really elegant mane, and giant paws, easily three times the usual cat-paw size. He was typical coon-cat colors, so he blended nicely into the outdoors – you could be standing next to him outside and not see him. He was an excellent hunter, and ate every part of everything he caught, including guts, feathers, beaks, tails. When he was young, he could jump straight up to the top of the refrigerator, and screened windows were not a barrier – one claw swipe usually opened them, and if not, his giant paws could open any unlocked door.  Until he was old and lost his hearing, he didn’t talk much – the purr was almost internal, there was never a meow. In his old age, he purred loudly and his meow was as loud as a bark.

He also decided, in his old age, to become a gardener, and would spend hours twice daily trimming his many catnip bushes. I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to plant at least nine huge catnip plants without my help. I tried to keep them down to three, but as soon as I dug up one, I’d find another he’d recently started. No one, even Biscuit, was allowed to trim his catnip plants if he was around to see it. He reluctantly allowed me to pick some to bring to Lou, the local vet clinic’s cat, once in awhile.

Catman scared dogs and other cats, and most people. One dear friend who was living with us for a time, a giant of a man with strong muscles and tall, came to me one night and said, please, come move Catman. He’s on my bed and won’t get off, and I need to go to sleep.  Catman wasn’t sharing. But his mom and dad could move him, and when he was older, one of his favorite things was to have us flip him over on his back in our arms, kiss his belly, and carry him around the garden, or to wherever we were working in the yard. He’d become a lover of humans, aged to a perfect sweetheart, from the semi-wild being who mostly just tolerated us when he was young. In age, he craved company; he wanted to spend hours leaning on his person, watching tv, or reading. Catman preferred action movies and mystery books. He’d occasionally tolerate Biscuit curling herself around him. He did not sit on laps – he was perfectly happy to be held, but only if he was up in the air.

 

I don’t know what Catman’s philosophy on life or theory on death was. When he helped nurse my Bunny, who had diabetes and eventually died from it, he brought the fresh-killed mice for many weeks; when he stopped bringing them, I knew Bunny was too ill to recover. Catman tolerated thyroid medicine for his own illness for years, up until a day before he died. After gobbling his pills in the morning, the night before he died he rejected them, rejected his treats, rejected his favorite food. He was done, and told me so. 

 

The thing is, though, that he was still a dog. The day we had him put down, he wanted to spend the early part of it outside, lying in the sun, peeing on stuff. We sat with him; we carried him when he couldn’t walk; we moved him to shade when it was too hot. It took a dog-sized dose of muscle relaxer when the vet administered the final grace. CatmanDog  went out in style, just as he’d lived his life. He was amazing.

And yet, we’re still crying.

 

All photos Deb Marshall or Charley Freiberg