A Rant, An Update, A Pondering

 

Bachelor's Buttons

OK, I’m in pain. All my friends are in pain. Most of my patients are in pain. We’re wobbling on the edge of a deep abyss – one we never believed would happen at all, much less in our lifetimes – and there are awful depths, and twisty turns, and dark swamps, murky corners, heartbreak, physical and mental pain, soul- and spirit- destroying possibilities – no, not even possibilities, all these things are manifesting right now, and have been for some time – and it’s out of control, out of our control, beyond understanding – and very, very scary.

We’re growing old, and we’re much, much older than we were just four years ago, when there was still hope, and masses of people hadn’t turned evil yet.  We’re not sure we want to live through what’s inevitably coming. And the idea that our kids, our grandkids, our great-grandkids --- if they survive --- will have even longer to suffer and to have to strive against unthinkable odds to fix what has gone so horribly wrong makes us even sicker at heart, at soul, at spirit.

I get mentally nauseous trying to write this. I’ve started and stopped at least half a dozen times in the past several weeks. I’m going to try once more, this time to get all the way to the end.

Hibiscus

 We are in an era in which harmful lies are no longer perilous, and in which too many people believe that if one repeats something – any thing, no matter how wrong, how evil, how false, how damaging – if one repeats it often enough, that sanitizes it and makes it real and benignant. People’s minds have become warped and twisted; and I don’t understand how.

If you were to ask almost anyone; pretty much everyone: wouldn’t it be good if everyone was well fed; had a comfortable home; had good, free health care; could get any education they wanted; didn’t live in daily fear, either low-grade or acutely violent;  didn’t feel the need to arm themselves against other human beings; weren’t disrespected or hunted by other humans; weren’t frightened by the strangers they meet; cared for each other enough to do the kind and simple things that keep everyone healthy and secure; could enjoy breathing clean air, drinking clean water, were sure that their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren would have all those things – if you asked almost anyone: wouldn’t those be good things to have? They’d say yes.

They’d say yes, but then they’d argue with you about whether climate change actually exists (seriously, in this day and age?) and they’d tell you their right to not wear a mask trumps everyone else’s right to stay healthy and safe, and they’d insist that there are no trends nowadays of racial discrimination, sexual predation, ecological disaster, gun insanity, and reject the idea that it’s possible for us all to be provided with shelter, health care, food.  They’d make exceptions about who is deserving: not for lazy people, not for people who aren’t trying hard enough, not if it means raising taxes, not if it means I may have to sacrifice something, not if the person or group getting the benefit offends their sensibilities; they’d ignore or try to justify or deny the savaging our so-called president has done to public property, national parks and reserves; if you asked, they’d tell you that all that stuff Christ said – and that’s inherent in al religions – about caring for the poor and sick and less fortunate isn’t what was actually meant  --- ahhh, this is just making me soul sick all over again.

This is called "Pumpkin on a Stick." Look at those thorns!

 

So let’s just answer a few of the infuriating things we’ve all heard lately:

·         “We get it: Black Lives Matter. Go home now, I’m sick of listening to it.”  > Can’t go home. As soon as they go home, or stop making the national news, any potential progress stops.  Remember what happens every single time a bunch of people are murdered by a madman and the “we need to do something about gun control discussions start?”  Yup; two weeks later it’s again a non-issue.

·         “All lives matter.”  > Saying “Black Lives Matter” doesn’t mean all other lives don’t matter. It means that we recognize that some pretty horrific things have happened regularly and recently, as well as historically, to Black people, and we need to stop ignoring that and start doing something about it. “Black Lives Matter” also means Native American lives matter, immigrant lives matter, female lives matter, impoverished peoples’ lives matter… in the lengthy chain of connection, all lives matter. But those who respond “All lives matter” as if that were a clever or smug response, are really shouting out “We don’t f’ing care what has led to this and we aren’t going to go out of our way to help fix it. Go away; this is bugging me.”  And that is a big part of the problem.

·         “It’s my constitutional right to….[fill in the blank]” >Yeah, well, it probably actually isn’t. But whether it is or not – so what? Why would you choose to scare and endanger your neighbors and fellow citizens just to make a point? It’s selfish, self-centered, makes you a social pariah, and foolish. So grow up, suck it up, grow a conscience, and do the right thing for humanity. And that includes more than face masks and guns.

·         “It’s a hoax; it’s all fake news; I don’t believe it.” > I don’t even know what to say to this. Are you living in a fantasy world? Get over yourselves. Our world is falling apart, and we don’t need this childish, gratuitous nonsense, no matter how much fun it is for you at your ridiculous Trump rallies or in your inane militias. Are you enjoying some fantasy world in which your illegitimate ideas make you feel powerful in your evilness, or are you just stupid? This goes for you Q-Anon followers, a thousand times over. ARE YOU PEOPLE OUT OF YOUR MINDS?

·         “Biden’s not good enough. Bernie should have won. I’m going to write him in.” If you don’t vote, or vote for anyone besides Biden, you’re voting for Trump. You will personally be responsible for what happens in the next four years; you need to be spanked and sent to stand in the corner. If Bernie should have won, then why didn’t he win the primaries? Was someone not bothering to vote? We don’t have to love Biden – we just need to acknowledge that he’s 1000 times a better choice than the antichrist.

·         “I don’t think Biden’s capable of fixing this.” Well, Trump created most of this, and has proven incapable of handling the rest, so for god’s sake, don’t vote for the evil guy again, but let’s give the good guy a chance. Trump’s trying to kill us; Biden’s not. And Biden isn’t trying to kill us.

The new hibiscus

 

Rant Over For Now

The garden, at this time of year, is magical (when it’s not hot and humid). I get as much pleasure pulling spent things out of the garden and watching the bare beds re-emerge as I do putting seeds into them in the spring. Tidying up; and reveling in the morning glories gone wild, scarlet runner beans, the height of the amaranth and sunflowers, the brightness of bachelor’s buttons and nasturtiums and calendula, and discovering some surprises, some from long ago. There is one, just one, vigorous Sweet Annie plant at the back fence, sprouted from some fallen seed from a patch planted several years ago, for example.

What’s left in the garden now are a dying summer squash plant, the scarlet runner beans which are mostly not ready for picking, Gilfeather turnips, a few late-planted beets and carrots, some tomato plants, a volunteer buttercup squash emerging from the compost bin with several promising looking fruits on it, excellent large sweet peppers turning red, parsnips that will stay in the ground over winter, pears which are not yet ready for plucking, some very sad fava beans and some very large okras, re-invigorated sorrel, and lots of fall flowers. 

Inside the house, the basil  has been turned into pesto and the last large summer squashes into relish, the tomatoes get frozen a few at a time as they ripen, as do the beans; and the top shelf of the frig is packed with cucumbers in various kinds of brine and vinegar, lovely refrigerator pickles. A cabbage became sauerkraut; I have only quart canning jars left, and one box of canning jar lids – these things aren’t readily available this year, thanks to a rushing return to food preservation inspired by Covid – so I can make some tomato juice, perhaps, but that will be all – everything else will have to be frozen. And that’s not a bad thing.

Pears awaiting...

 The furry purries are still at odds with each other, but less so – Madame remains hissy prissy growly girl, but Mister mostly ignores that and sleeps near her, if not with her, chases her every so often, and sticks his face in her food bowl when he wants to. He’s a lover and a drooler; we’re smitten, and sure she will be, eventually.

Rasta Furian - the thing Biscut's pissed off about

Pissed-off Biscuit

How could this piss anyone off?

 

Odd Things We Think About

It occurred to me this morning as I was changing cold cotton sheets for warmer flannel ones (I’ll regret that as soon as it gets humid again) that I’m surrounded by things a friend who died several years ago had given me over the years. The flannel sheets I put on my bed were a pair she’d bought for herself and later decided she didn’t like the color; the blanket I added to the bed came out of a cabinet she’d bought for herself on the West Coast, but had no room for in her East Coast home and no good place to store it, so she passed it on to me. The glass I drank from last night had been another purchase she’d become bored with; the futon in the chapel is the same, and a side table, lamp and chair in the living room were also items she had in her West Coast house but felt didn’t suit her New Hampshire home.

The Gypsy bought a lot of stuff that, for one reason or another, she eventually decided didn’t suit her so much; in the last decades of her life, she had enough money that she could indulge her changing whims, and I was often the beneficiary. There is another set of flannel sheets that were her castoffs, and the rugs in my bedroom were also hers; in my jewelry case is a pair of earrings, and a single from a pair we split to share in our extra ear piercings. My closet holds clothes she gave me as gifts, and clothes she cast off; the dishes I eat off of were a birthday gift.  I don’t have to look hard to find things in my house that I use regularly that were once hers, or resembled things she used to own – we both liked the products made by several local artisans, and over the years bought items from them at the same time. She talked me into buying our couch, and into several other purchases that I wouldn’t have made otherwise. I’m literally surrounded by stuff that reminds me of her daily.

 

This year's weird plant - much bigger than last year. In the garlic bed.

The odd thing about this is that I like most the stuff that was hers or came from her, and I like thinking about her; but a few years before she died, something I still don’t really understand happened, and I hadn’t seen her for several years when I discovered she was on death’s door and had told her family she didn’t want to see any of us. She believed that I’d done something – I still don’t know what, it had something to do with an old friend of mine she had started dating, and when he had a period of personal troubles that he didn’t want to share with her because the relationship wasn’t old enough or secure enough, and in the Gypsy’s mind I’d somehow betrayed her. It sounded crazy at the time but it was a bone she’d gnawed on longer than I could have guessed, and she didn’t want to talk about it except to tell me she never wanted to see me again. And she never did.

I assumed that sooner or later time would out, and she’d change her mind, or rethink what she felt were her injuries, or something – and we’d be friends again. It didn’t happen, and now I wonder if her final illness – she had metastasized cancer – had somehow been exerting itself on her mind, years before anyone knew she was ill. I’ll never know, and it doesn’t really matter.

But now, in the times I become aware that I’m thinking about the Gypsy, because something or other of hers, which I’ve become so comfortable with that I acknowledge it but usually don’t think very much about it except as the passing thought  “this used to be the Gypsy’s,” has somehow woken my larger awareness, I wonder what she’d think if she knew that I’m still surrounded by her in so many material ways, and that I think about her, consciously or barely so, pretty much every day. I wonder if it would infuriate her; or if she would have mellowed, given more time. I wonder if she regretted having given so much of her stuff.

And mostly, I wonder how one defines a relationship that changed so radically, but continued even after it changed, and continues still, though one person is dead.

It’s a curiousity.

Grain Amaranth - I grow it because it's lovely.

 

 

 

All photos Deb Marshall

 

Things I Know

Rasta Furian: at night. No idea what he looks like in daytime.

 

 

Here’s what I know:

Wearing a mask for hours and hours at a time creates the perfect environment for growing menopausal chin hairs – long and abundant;

A brand-new washer and dryer in this day and age is truly, truly frightening. There are lights, digital read-outs, things I don’t understand, stuff I don’t recognize – this is not your grandpa’s washing machine;

This year is more than bizarre in so many ways. I have sunflowers that are only 6 inches high, and okra plants that are more than waist high, and cucumbers growing in the very few sunflowers that are almost normal height;

Rastafurian is apparently invisible during the hours from 9 am to 9 pm. We’ve hunted all over the house and cellar for him; his mommy came and hunted all over the house and cellar for him; he was not to be found. So when every reasonable and logical possibility has been proven wrong, that means the impossible, illogical, unreasonable remains must be true: he’s invisible;

He isn’t a vampire because I was able to take his picture and it’s visible, and he didn’t burst into flames when I did it;

I hate days when I’m not comfortable if I’m wearing a shirt, and I’m not comfortable if I’m not wearing a shirt;

I’ve mostly given up on the garden this year. It’s been a horrible garden year. I’ll keep looking for stuff to eat in it, but I’m not at all impressed. Knee-high corn, chest-high okra with no flowers, several tomato plants that never got higher than 18 inches, and some of the others that have only 1 or 2 fruits on them --- it goes on;

The last 2 foot by 2 foot space missing bricks in the new sorta-patio area at the garden entrance may never get filled;

Tendinitis doesn’t get better if you keep over-using the joint;

I’ve really missed having a cat who’s a lover, but it would be nice if I could see him in the daylight hours;

Four minutes of rain, even heavy rain, isn’t enough rain to make the garden happy;

Take a large glass; pour in about 2 inches of cold coffee; add an equal amount of heavy cream – half-and-half in a pinch if you don’t have cream; add a couple of ice cubes, then fill the glass with sparkling water – there is no better drink. You can add a dash of vanilla extract or almond extract if you like;

Deviled eggs, and anything else I feel like eating, don’t make themselves, which is a problem when I don’t feel like cooking, either;

Just because I don’t feel like cooking doesn’t mean I’m going to be happy with food someone else cooked;

It’s a web-worm year; and a tomato-blight year; and a chipmunk-excess year; and a squash-bug year; and a Deb-feels-snarly year;

The house doesn’t dust itself, either;

I wish I could remember where I left my magic wand;

Amaranth - the short version

 

Reading instead of sleeping doesn’t really make you less tired;

Hardy hibiscus flowers are magical;

I put away gladiola bulbs from plants that produced scented flowers, yellow flowers, red flowers, pinkish flowers, and green flowers last fall; I planted them all this summer; so why are they all red flowers this year?

One of the many red glads; and the only yellow one

 

Just because you’re someone who likes to cook doesn’t mean you actually want to cook;

Toast some sourdough bread – the real stuff, not the stuff that has yeast in it – then scrape it with a raw garlic clove, smear it with the best olive oil you own, put sliced really ripe tomatoes from your own garden on the slices, salt liberally, and sprinkle with fresh summer savory: who needs to cook?

Summer savory is better on tomatoes than basil, unless the tomato slices are setting on slices of fresh mozzarella – then you need fresh basil;

Cherry tomatoes picked and eaten in the sun outdoors need no salt; the minute you bring them inside, they need salt;

Cat drool spreads infinitely far;

Do growling cats ever lie? 

 

Deb Marshall photos.

 

Delphiniums, 2nd flowering

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Changes

 

Mixed heathers in bloom

 Mid-August: Change is in the air. And in my house. And in my garden. And in the light outside.

The change that’s in the air is, with any luck, going to become more solid come the September primaries. I still run into people who, at this point, can only be called crackpots or seriously, seriously misinformed and apparently incapable of finding truth for themselves – but I run into them a little less often. Maybe because VT’s governor mandated wearing facemasks in all public places, maybe because a number of towns in NH are following suit, even though the NH governor is still toadying to the man who wants his head on Mt Rushmore (which, you have to admit, is an interesting idea: if it could be accomplished right now, on a stake, there could be a lot of support for the thing, on both sides of the aisle); maybe it’s because more and more people who actually know things have stopped pretending that we have to listen to our fearful leader with a straight face; maybe because we’ve mostly reached our capacity for stupid foolishness, since it’s slid over into dangerous foolishness. Whatever; for the first time in years I actually feel slightly hopeful. I actually smiled the other day.

The change in the air is outside, too – today, at least, it’s less humid and cooler and I don’t feel like a pile of warmed-over cow plop for the first time in a long time. There’s a very slight change in smell, which will grow stronger as the weeks go by, that says that fall is coming. The light has changed, too – we no longer have full summer light, especially in the late afternoon, we have last-richness-before-fall light – a gentler light, a real announcement of dusk coming, a hush that happens only this time of year. Dragonflies are very visible and very obvious; birds, including Buzzy, are racing about and protecting their late-summer food sources; the little ones have fledged, and the chipmunks and birds are busily working the sunflowers, poor stunted beings that they are this year.

Chinese lanterns flowers and thorns

 Squash bugs decimated my zucchini plants after only 2 fruits were produced, and they’re trying to do the same to my summer squash plants – I’ve squooshed way more big juicy squash bugs with my fingers than I ever wanted to. Something that I can’t find – I assume tomato hornworms, but I can’t locate them – have eaten all the leaves off two of my pitiful tomato plants, so the small number of tomatoes on those plants have come inside to ripen off the vine. The okra plants are big and gorgeous this year, but haven’t bloomed yet; the scarlet runner beans are finally flowering, keeping Buzzy Boy in a tizzy as he tries to protect those and his feeders, but unless we have a wicked long fall, all they’ll produce is prettiness – not a bad thing, but not much of a crop. Fava beans this year are just terrible; I’ve pulled all the green beans and most the yellow beans; and the carrot tops are turning black  and dry. It’s just too dry this year and I can’t keep up by watering. The beets – the few that germinate – are good. My leeks are sending up flowers even though they aren’t really big enough to pull and use, yet, so now I’m pulling and using strangely slim leeks. Turns out leek flowers are tasty.

The cucumbers are climbing all over the place and hiding so I’m finding large ones. I discovered that refrigerator pickles made by slicing cukes into leftover curried summer squash pickling juice are to die for; I may have to make more of that brine just to make more frig pickles. I’m going to see if they’re good sliced into leftover beet pickle brine next. This is a good thing about having been raised in NH – you grow up not wasting anything, so of course I saved the extra spiced pickling brines! I just wasn’t sure what I was going to do with them when I did.

 

Rabbit-foot clover

 Potatoes were early and not lots of them; corn is short and while tasseled, meh – it’s the 2^nd year of corn experiment and I’ll do it one more year before I turn those new beds into something else. The pumpkin and winter squash I planted in with the corn died. Again – just too dry, can’t keep up. The other winter squash and pumpkin plants are barely now sending out some blossoms, which will be too late for produce. The only squashy thing doing well is a volunteer that planted itself on the edge of the compost bins – it’s lush and beautiful and I have no idea if it’s a pumpkin or a buttercup yet, but there are some small fruits.

Basil, on the other hand, which took forever to germinate, is doing well and I’ll make pesto for the first time in years. The catnip plants always do well; amaranth is finally head-high and in bloom, but the Love Lies Bleeding, which is a variety of amaranth, is only knee high, but valiantly putting out small blossoms. Calendula is late; nasturtiums so-so; cosmos never germinated; bachelor’s buttons only a few. Bells of Ireland are nowhere, and the thorny, spikey Chinese Lanterns are being eaten by caterpillers faster than I can remove the bugs. I haven’t pulled any turnips yet, but the leaves are rich and lovely.  Morning glories are only now blooming, and they’ve self-seeded and climbed the pear tree again.

Basil!!

 Chipmunks – dammit, chipmunks! Are all through the garden again. And eating more than their fair share. Pepper plants have produced many huge fruits. Fingers crossed that the weather will let them ripen to red. Chipmunks don’t seem to relish peppers, but they eat tomatoes from the bottom up. Parsnips are looking great, but chipmunks – dammit, chipmunks! Fingers crossed that they don’t decimate my parsnip beds over night some night, as they did two years ago. Biscuit watches them avidly from the edge of the wart, but rarely decides to chase them.

Biscuit seems to be completely unconcerned about the shy, 4-year-old cat we brought home yesterday, from a friend who needed to find a new home for him. He was named Shasta, which we immediately changed to Rastafurian, and I can’t show you a photo because he sped out of the cat carrier when we opened it yesterday afternoon, raced about the house, then disappeared. Biscuit watched from her perch on the couch, thinking “Huh. I didn’t know there was another cat living here. I wonder who he is.” And then went back to sleep. Rasta, on the other hand, found a hidey spot I haven’t been able to locate. He emerged and raced through the house briefly last night after The Husband went to bed; then came out and peeped at me, before disappearing again. We heard him making little mewing noises during the night, and I found signs of some of his exploring this morning, but haven’t caught sight of him all day. 

Biscuit - unconcerned

 

I need a dog. A dog would find the cat for me. But I don’t have a dog, so I’ll have to wait for Shasta-Rasta to decide to emerge on his own. At his last home, he let me hand-feed him some treats and play string with him, and rub his back and scritch his tail root, but, oh well – his person said he was shy and so he is. And apparently can turn invisible, too. Biscuit still hasn’t decided she needs to locate him, unless she did it during the night. Once he finally comes out, I’m guessing she’ll totally boss him around.

And so we wait. Changes are in progress, and we hope they’ll all be good ones, and come soon.

Though I hope Fall drags her feet long enough to let the garden change to rich, ripe, harvestable food, first.

Don’t forget to vote. 

The squash/pumpkin in the compost

 

 

 

 

 All photos Deb Marshall