Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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The Gardener’s Shadow

   In planning my herbs, veggies, & flowers early this spring, I found a proverb that struck me:

  “The best fertilizer is the gardener’s shadow.” 

  

 
   Do you recall any summer days gone past that were soured with the discovery of a veggie bed overtaken by weeds or some beetle-eaten roses?  Or has your garden ever been neglected to the point of complete dehydration?  Yes for me, on all three counts. 

These are snow pea vines surrounded by grass and weeds.
   But these are totally avoidable disasters.  I would venture to say that most horticultural maladies can be solved with little more than regular, unbridled attention from a person who loves all things green.  Maybe that person is you.
   Growing up, we were fortunate to live nearby and therefore spend a lot of time with our maternal grandparents, both of whom were avid gardeners.  I think back on their bent posture, their wardrobe, their loving habits, and their breathtaking results, and I know in my heart that they enjoyed every aspect of the art.  Sure wish I had some photos of their old cottage gardens to share.
   Grandma & Grandpa Stubbs were not overtly religious to my memory, but based on their meditative devotion to their multiple rooms of paradise, I feel like they were in touch with something gratifyingly spiritual.

   Here are spinach and strawberries in my garden, not theirs.  Theirs would not be riddled with grass like this.

   Who can coax seeds into flower beds
or a dinner salad and not sense divinity? 

Our first batch of red potatoes grown two years ago.  DELISH.
Spicy, crunchy radishes.  So much fun to pluck out of the ground.
And check out those colors!
   They both worked full time office hours (or more) at the family lamp manufacturing business Village Art Lamps and retreated I would guess five or six days a week to the outdoors, all year long. 
   We enjoyed fresh vegetables.  We played in mammoth, fluffy hedges of lemon mint (that concealed the humming air condenser in summertime).  We ate grapes right off the vine near the Elephant Tree. 
 
   It wasn’t really a dead elephant like the grown-ups told us, I remember noticing one day at the ripe old age of maybe six.  But danged if it didn’t look like one!  This was a turning point.  The beginning of my personal enlightenment.
   They sweated and groaned and took lots of iced tea breaks.  Grandma used this very nifty artificial sweetener in a slender glass bottle with a push button dispenser on top.  I loved that thing.  And I loved that she gave me unlimited access to its contents.  (Maybe this explains my adult obsession with diet cola?)
   They rested and looked out at their progress.  They played with us.  They chatted with our parents.  Then they started working again.  Grandpa to this day calls it “putzing around” in the garden, belying the very present element of hard labor, especially for an eighty three year old man.

Blossom #1 on our peach tree, year #2.
   My point is that they always worked in their garden; they stayed there, they didn’t visit twice a week expecting auto pilot to have magically kicked in.  And they enjoyed not just the results but also the process.  They seemed to thrive as much on the food and flowers as they did on the toil itself. 

   As a self centered little girl I was just happy they talked to me so much while I played there under that fragrant Mimosa tree.  Looking back at that scene now, I realize how I learned from them to be patient with little ones.  To not take my “work” too seriously to enjoy the distractions, causing me to miss at least half of the blessing of being a gardener. 
   If you are growing anything right now, keep it up.  Stay in that outdoor room as much as possible, looking, touching, smelling, pruning, watering, tucking in, protecting, feeding, harvesting, just generally putzing around. 
   The more attention you lavish on your Eden, the more lovely it is bound to be.  And the more you enjoy doing so, the greater your cumulative reward. 
   Oh, and if you have your own gardening Grandparents, give them some hugs asap.

 “He who loves a garden
  still his Eden keeps,
  Perennial pleasures plants,
  and wholesome harvest reaps.”                      
~Amos Bronson Alcott

When You Come From Writers, You Write.

   My Great-Grandmother Velma Neiberding was a writer in the most traditional sense.  She was a published author; she contributed to the records of Ottawa county for the Oklahoma Historical society; and from what I understand she also wrote recreationally.  I have a copy of one of her books in hardback, Sugar and Spice, and I will never ever give it up.  She died before I became closely acquainted with her enough to claim any specific influence, but her legacy in the family is still tangible.  And having some of her writing available is a wonderful gift.  It is true that words live longer lives than we do.
   Her son, my Grandpa Jack Dunaway, also wrote.  I don’t know whether he was ever published, but he wrote prolifically.  So much.  And so well.  He made people laugh and feel good with his words, writing about daily life and his experiences in the U.S. Army and with big animals as a country veterinarian.  Just organically great stuff!


   He was an incredibly loving and world-aware man, as witty as my to-do list is long.  He had a way with words that made you want to read about what would otherwise be just the most mundane things ever!  Even after his passing we continued to find typewritten essays and poems, possibly never shared with a soul. 
   Too bad blogging wasn’t around yet for Grandpa Dunaway.  He would have been even more popular than Mrs. Ioneer-Pay Umman-way.
   My Dad is a writer.  He will strenuously object to this label, and he has every right to do so, but it fits.  Too bad, so sad…
   Dad wrote the most humble, beautiful and time-tested message to me at my high school graduation inside the cover of a Dr. Seuss book. 
   Yes yes, I know LOTS of seniors received Oh the Places You’ll Go for a gift, but only MINE has my Dad’s handwritten love letter inside…

   When my middle-little-brother-who-actually-seems-like-an-older-brother and his lovely wife had their first baby…

Aren’t they a beautiful family??

   …Dad shared with us a piece he wrote called PIQ.  “Perceived Importance Quotient.”  It is priceless.  He outlined the aching truth about how parenthood shifts through time, how the complete dependence of an infant and the proportional self-assured feeling of necessity for the infant’s parent gradually devolves.  Sad, true, exaggerated, loving words from a man who has never received the honor he so richly deserves.

   We were invited to respond and Big-Little Brother did so eloquently, but I never found the words.  I can’t get comfortable matching my Dad.  Way to show me up again Joey!  Sheesh.
   My youngest daughter writes.  She is thirteen, and as I sit here her bookshelves and the space beneath her bed are stuffed with journals, notebooks, and errant pads of paper all tattooed with her sprawling thoughts and imaginative stories. 


   At times I have thought she cannot contain the flood, a familiar feeling.  She is talented and passionate and terribly missed in these walls.  But now we are pen pals, and I can read her letters and stories every day!  Words live.

   So the bloodline continues.

A New Kind of First Step

   My first baby.  My beautiful, widely talented, brown eyed little girl is embarking on a new chapter of life that will change her life maybe more than anything since leaning to walk.  She is learning to drive. 
  
   And not just the old pickup truck in our back field or her little go cart up and down the long driveway, which were excellent precursors but obviously not the real thing; she is enrolling in actual, real life driving school.  Which means that within months she will likely be seen around Oklahoma City, happily giving all of us pretend heart attacks while we secretly celebrate her growing independence.

   When she learned to walk, it was such a happy time!  She was absolutely joyful about it, like she knew in her wordless baby mind, “Whoa.  This is a big deal.”  She still enjoyed being held, carried, and cuddled, but walking was the shiz-nay.  Her tiny fists could grip an index finger like no body’s business, affording her all the extra balance she needed to make it from couch to chair, etc. 

   Her chubby, wobbly little legs, that soft, feathery brown hair framing Mary Taylor’s face (her great-grandmother).  Glossy, rosebud mouth.  And those eyes. 




   Oh my goodness, she has always had the dreamiest, most liquid brown eyes you can imagine.  She still does, and these days they are tastefully accented by some very grown up swipes of black mascara and silver eyeshadow.  How I miss watching her animated eyes when she tells a story.
   I know that in the future, if we get to hear from her One True Love about why he first fell for her, it will have something to do with her eyes.



   Oh, back to driving…  This is the summer between her Freshman and Sophomore years in high school, and around here that is just the perfect time to take driving lessons.  I couldn’t be happier!! 
   Having long ago abandoned the idea of sternly not allowing my children to grow up, against my Dad’s strong recommendation, this is a time to celebrate!  So celebrate we will. 
  
   My hope is that, in addition to staying safe every single minute of every single journey, my almost grown baby girl will make happy memories, gain confidence behind the wheel and around the city streets, and maybe drive out to see us now and then. 

   She may or may not want me there for her first official trip as Driver, time will tell, but I was there when she took her first step.  And I can feel her belly laugh in my own belly when I remember it.  And I am so thankful for every bit of growth that has brought her this far.  xoxoxo

   http://womenlivingwell-courtney.blogspot.com/search/label/Women%20Living%20Well%20Wednesdays%22%3E%3Cimg border=”0″ src=”http://i457.photobucket.com/albums/qq297/courtneylivingwell/LivingWell.png” />

Important Book Found in French Quarter

   Sometimes I am lucky enough to travel with Handsome whilst he saves the world from energy crises, regulatory challenges, management mishaps, and such.  Really any escape is appreciated, even to oft-stomped grounds like Tulsa. 

   But another way I am lucky is that sometimes I get to accompany him on trips to amazing cities like New Orleans, from where I might actually originate, despite all evidence to the contrary. 
   Mom & Dad, is it SLIGHTLY POSSIBLE I was born here and you just forgot?  Or did you feed me bread pudding in my bottle?  Did something formative happen to me on the great Mississippi? 



   No?  Eh bien…  I am content to claim Oklahoma as home and visit Louisiana from time to time. 

   On one such N.O. business trip in the warming months of 2010, I had the afternoon to myself while Handsome attended meetings.  I enjoyed lunch of half a cold muffaletta and hot, rich chicory coffee.  With sugar and heavy cream.  Always.  The cafe had a curved painted ceiling.

   And live jazz nearby.

   In the arts district I made purchases of sparkly gifts for my teen aged daughters, and then I found the most beautiful book store.
   Like many New Orleans shops, it was three deeply set, ornate stories stacked onto a diminutive footprint.  It was creaky, painted for the umpteenth time, and crammed to the hilt with treasures.  Treasures the proprietor is happy to reveal to his visitors, but only in hushed tones…  Like he’s letting you in on a little bit of Creole magic…

   This isn’t the same building, but it is a New Orleans building with some elusive magnetism.


   I looked for over half an hour, lazily tempted by five or six good looking titles, when I decided to ask the bearded book pusher for a recommendation.  I asked specifically for anything not mainstream, maybe something local?
   I suppose everyone knows that Anne Rice is just about the hottest New Orleans author known, but the treasure offered me that day was a title not widely published and also one not centered around vampires (arguably her most well known flavor). 

   The Feast of All Saints had three big things going for it even before I swiped my debit card: 

  • Local author in my very favorite city
  • Relatively limited circulation
  • Historical fiction off the beaten path 

Purchased without hesitation, thank-you-very-much. 
This is an unfluffy, uncrunchy image of the book cover.


   I always devour Rice’s prose with shameful gluttony.  She writes with sensuality and  painfully accurate emotional detail.  Her characters are many and varied, and they are each developed exactly as much as you want them to be.  Her stories are reliably complex, fast moving, entertaining…  Feast of All Saints was no exception.
   I blazed through the first third of the book immediately upon returning home, only to drop it in our swimming pool that summer.  It needed to dry out baby! 
   During those page drying days I moved on to a new title and then got busy with back to school tasks and rituals.  This was not a book I wanted to read with divided eyes, so it got temporarily shelved.
   I noticed the now fluffy and crunchy paperback several times throughout the winter of Snowmageddon but could not bring myself to read more, even with undivided eyes, because it had such a summer feel. 
   Do you ever read a book and crave certain tastes in your mouth?  Certain fragrances or tactile sensations?  Well sometimes I associate certain books with certain seasons, and this book begged for summertime.   It demanded humidity and sexiness and profound beauty, just like what the French Quarter provides. 
   So finally late this Spring the reading stars aligned and I resumed my unladylike feast of Feast.  And I loved
Every. 
Single. 
Page.
Full review to follow…
  

My Top Ten Summer Don’ts

   Summertime 2011 will be a season different than any I have ever had in my life, for so many reasons.

  • I have been a Mom for sixteen years, but this will be the first summer both of my two beautiful daughters plan to spend full time with their Dad & his family. 
  • Handsome and I have a busier hobby farm than we have ever had before. 
  • I am actually on the road to losing weight instead of gaining it. 
  • The gardens are mostly planted by now, and not just on paper. 
  • I have a blog, a new, shiny, unscrewed up blog. 
  • Handsome’s car show calendar is the fullest it’s ever been. 
  • I am scheduled to be a bridesmaid in our nephew’s wedding.  
  • Handsome & I will be celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary in July. 
  • And our very best friends will be sending their youngest off to college in August, a milestone we cannot help but commemorate along with them. 

Gulp.  Lots going on!

   So how shall I ensure that this summer of patchwork challenges and opportunities doesn’t fly past me like a kid greased up in Coppertone, zooming down a wet Slip-N-Slide?  I have a plan….

  1. I will use sunscreen & self tanner on my face and throat as often as possible, acknowledging all the while that I am now in my late thirties and no can no longer afford multiple sunburns there.  Similarly, I will wash up frequently, because summertime means outside, and outside means dirty (especially around here), and dirty means surprise breakouts.  I will not be grody.
  2. I will seize every day for what it offers.  No matter the weather or the agenda, I will accept every day for the specialness it bears, because Summertime 2011 will be made up of only about eighty-four days and eighty-four nights.  And we all know how quickly those can evaporate, especially in the Oklahoma heat and humidity.  I will not luxuriate in the freedom of summer so much that I waste it.
  3. I will send gifts to my children, call them frequently without asking when we’ll see each other again, and pray for them and their Dad and Step mom every day.  I will get through this summer without bitterness, and I will conquer the seeds of resentment.
  4. I’ll spend some time with my sweet and wise ol’ Grandpa Rex.  He has the prettiest and most productive garden in the world, and he has taught me nearly everything I know about this rewarding art.  I hope this isn’t our last summer with him.  I will not take my loved ones for granted.

5.  I will entertain zealously, like probably once or twice a week, but I will NOT, I repeat I will NOT gain three to five pounds for every party we throw.
6.  My husband and I will celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary in July, woohoo!!  I will not wait until the morning of departure to pack my suitcase and mop the floor.
7.  I will not spend more time on Facebook than I spend writing something that will last.  Yikes, that one could be difficult.

    8.  I will not shy away from the most difficult and icky farm chores, forever resting on the brute strength and industriousness of my Handsome Husband.  I will shoulder more of this burden than he’s honestly expecting me to, but I won’t tell him first.  Who was it who said this?  “Don’t tell me what you’re going to do; show me.”  This is good advice.  The bank where I used to work had a customer service tenet:  “Under-promise and over-deliver.”  Bingo.
    9.  We have a great book club.  I mean, we have collected some of Oklahoma’s best and brightest women, and we have a great time!  But this summer I will not read the last page first, not on any of our chosen titles.  Like, I totally promise.
    10.  Lastly, I will not freak out too awful much if I fail at any of the previous nine resolutions.  Life is good; life is beautiful in fact, and I am so grateful for every detail of what I have been given.  Even the tough stuff.