Lazy W Marie

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

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.

Only the Best Car in the Galaxie

   My first car was a 1960 Ford Galaxie.  I loved it.  It was huge and rusty and smelled like a damp cellar, but it got me (almost) everywhere I wanted to go.  I inherited the beast from my Grandpa Dunaway after just a hundred years few months of practicing on dirt roads in Ft. Towson, OK.  Now, you want to talk about good memories, I have a hard time thinking of better ones! 
   Grandpa Dunaway aptly christened the car “Flattery” because, well, we all know where flattery gets you.  Ahem.  This was cute and hilarious to me when maybe it should have been a red flag.  But, like so many teenagers, I made independence the key to my happiness.  The Flattery years were a time for celebration!

   My Dad, always the patient mechanic and city-wide tow service, will certainly beg to differ that I was ever in those years independent.  What a little snot I must have been!  Now, of course, I see the difference between independent and simply mobile.  Yes, that is a huge difference indeed. 
   Thank you, Dad, for always being there to help me out!  I still have no idea what a solenoid does.  And I am sorry I never saved enough money to put cool wheels on that car; I know you wanted it to have baby moons.
   Ole Flattery had a classically loud mid-century horn, loud like a foghorn, which had a habit of shorting out before dawn.  This was a favorite event for the neighborhood, I think.  Kind of bonded all the households.  Helped everyone not sleep too late. 

You are welcome for that, 41st street.

   Flattery’s body was so rusted that now I feel a moral conflict when describing the car as white.  Sometimes if I brushed against it, especially around the driver’s side rear fender, something resembling paprika would cling to my hand or jeans. 
   Don’t worry, though; another feature of my teen chapter was wearing too much black, so no white jeans were harmed in the brushing of my rusty car.

   The front bench seat had its original upholstery.  Well, whatever was left of its original upholstery after the car’s stint in a field.  I found the foamy depression to be very comfortable.  I knew how to move out of the way of that spring. 
   Flattery’s radio was original, too, the awesome chromed push-button kind that is destined to only broadcast KOMA (oldies station in these parts).  
  
   I could write pages about this machine, as it was a character in its own right!  The important thing, though, is that Flattery will forever live in my heart as a privilege I did not deserve and as a host of lessons I could have learned if I was paying better attention.  
  

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…