Lazy W Marie

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

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Tiptoeing Through Seeds

   Few normal, everyday events have the power to thrust me into a foul mood more than walking barefoot on a dirty floor.  Especially a hardwood floor encrusted with parrot fodder.  Especially when it happens fifteen feet away from the parrot’s perch. 
   I also hate sweeping and mopping, though.  These rank super low on my list of Pleasurable Domestic Duties.  What an unfortunate combination of personality traits, eh? 

   Introducing our bird, our only inside animal, Bobby Pacino….


“Wannabite?”

   You can just call him Pacino.  Or Peekaboo.  He recently turned six years old and is a really good and loving boy through and through.  But he is messy.  I mean, he is like a toddler crossed with Animal from the Muppet Show in the middle of a tornado.  That kind of messy.

   And while cleaning up after Pacino is not difficult per se, it is a tedious job that needs to be done frequently.  Which translates to, “It gets put off a lot.” 
   Like any job that gets put off, this can be problematic.  Maybe I can get away with not sweeping for an afternoon.  If I scoot his perch a little bit away from our walking path, maybe the floors can even wait until tomorrow. 
   But that causes terrible things to accumulate beneath the loveseat.  And eventually we are all padding around the living room, shaking empty sunflower seeds from our bare feet.  Or cursing the dried red peppers in the adjoining room’s carpet. 
   My last act of defiance against cleaning floors is tiptoeing through the now thickened blanket of seeds, elusive white under feathers, and cracker crumbs that radiates out from Pacino’s throne.  By day two of procrastinating, I lend to my trek across the lower level of our home the same energy you might give to navigating a minefield.  This causes my tension to mount rapidly.
   Almost as soon as I realize we have reached this extreme yet again, I go find the broom & mop.  Ten minutes later the hardwood is restored to safety and smoothness.  We are walking upright again, no longer wasting time, energy, and peacefulness on avoiding this very natural part of life.
   What are you actively avoiding today?  Don’t be like me and spend more of yourself on avoiding a job than you would spend just getting it done already.  Bite the bullet!  Do yourself a favor and fast forward into completion while you are still smiling…


  

  “The fastest way through a problem is solving it.”
~Author Unknown
Thanks for your indirect motivation, Pacino!
xoxoxo
~Momma

Anthropomorphism

   Yes, this is a real word. 
No, it is not a high end retail store
filled with all things mouth-watering.
   Defined by Webster anthropomorphism is, “an interpretation of what is not human or personal in terms of human or personal characteristics.  (Humanization)”  The word is believed to have first been used during the 18th century, not long before the Victorian era of studying animals became super cool, trendy, and fruitful.
   An easy way to wrap your head around this is to think of whether animals have feelings, personalities, etc, any of the things which make the HUMAN animal, well, human.  Remember this is an interpretation, even less scientific than science already is.  Professional and philosophical views on this are all over the map!  What do you think?  Where do we delineate between the rest of Kingdom Animalia and ourselves?
   Two books I have read are excellent resources here.

Studied this in senior English.
At a Catholic high school,
so please don’t prematurely 
freak out about the curriculum of evolution. 
xoxoxo
I checked this out at the library.
I am not positive it has been returned.
What is the maximum fine again?

   Being the very happy every day caretaker of upwards of 36 animals on our crazy little farm, I confidently assert that animals have personalities, moods, thought processes, emotions, you name it!  
   They respond to hormones and instincts, sure; but they also respond to language, tone, affection, social arrangements, and age.  Our parrot in particular is a really good judge of character.  And our black mare is so aware of her physical beauty that she displays pride.  Real, shameful, sinful pride.  On the other hand, she is an excellent mother.
   In this country’s pet-having culture, really, who would dare argue that animals are individuals?  Where things get dicey is at the mention of soul.  And sin, like with Daphne’s pride.
   And this is exactly the intersection where we need answers.  Do all dogs go to heaven?  What assurances should we be offering little kids when they say goodbye?  Especially if you have chosen a Bible path, what do you say?  What do you believe?  And how does this affect your mode of animal discipline?  Yikes. 
   Today is more a day of questions for me than answers.  I want to get a grip on this once and for all.  Please jump in!  

  

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.