Giant Ferns and Other Ferocious Beasts

I've been hobbling around here for two days like a person who's about to have her 134th birthday instead of her 34th.  The culprit?  Ferns.  Our driveway is lined with giant ferns.  Handsome devils until they get overgrown and start getting feisty.  I vowed to get them under control after an incident last weekend in which one of the mid-sized ferns Miata-slapped the truck, "Whataya lookin at, tough guy?  I catch your headlights pointin my direction again you're gonna get a frond you'll never forget!".  Bullies have no place in my yard, so I gathered up a few sharp implements and went to work.  10 hours later I returned.  Sweaty.  Bloody.  Dirty.  The pile of fronds I had taken from the ferns was massive.  Ten feet in diameter, three feet deep.  That's a lot of fern matter.  Even after I ran it through the chipper, it took several wheelbarrow trips to clear it out.  Two days later, I'm still feeling the pain.  You'd think that if your yard is essentially the woods, yard work would be virtually nonexistent.  You'd be wrong.  Yard work is alive and well.  Yard work here is a contact sport. 

Getting my ass handed to me by a bunch of ferns?  "Jeez, sister, join a gym, mix in a protein shake."  But truthfully, I'm stronger now than I've ever been.  I move large rocks.  I can body slam my german shorthair.  I can lift solid core doors into place.  I pack around my own 80 pond bags of concrete, thank you very much.  I have the occasional superhuman bout of strength.  When I picked up our stove, two Sears guys loaded it into the back of the truck.  At a loading dock.  When I got it home, I unloaded it by myself and got it to the kitchen without a dent or the use of a ramp.  And then I hooked it up.  Last year for Dee's birthday, I got him this mid-century sleeper sofa he spotted at a shop on Hawthorne.  I single-handedly wrestled it from the store to the truck and from the truck to the house.  Since then, Dee and I moved it once and declared it too heavy and wily to be moved again.  Ever.  Our backs and our relationship would simply not be able to stand the strain.

When I turn on the tube, the diy network is the first thing I flip to.  If you ever watch it, you're sure to be familiar with Amy Matthews.  She's my favorite.  She's always wearing those cap sleeves, showing off her guns.  Guns I envied until early last summer when I donned a tank and saw the arms I'd kept hidden beneath a Filson all winter.  Good grief.  My lot in life as a stuff-mover was starting to show.  Proud member of the armed forces.  Still, the ferns were a bear.

About 17 months ago, on the very same day we took possession of this place, I heard the unmistakable crack of a tree trunk.  I came to the window just in time to see a hundred foot tall fir tree from our yard topple over, decimating the fence and crashing into the neighbor's house.  That was the first indication that yard work was going to be a little rough 'round these parts.

I added a chainsaw to our assortment of lawn and garden tools.  One day I drove spikes into an old pair of Pumas to assist in my woodswoman activities.  I picked up a safety harness, the kind used by actual woodsmen, construction workers, and skyscraper window washers.  I don it to clear view-blocking brush off the cliff.  There isn't much that grows under these big ol' trees, but what does grow is savage.

As it stands, I could spend 40 hours a week doing "yard work" and have job security for ages.  Unfortunately, the gig doesn't pay worth a damn.  I shutter to think what kind of jungle I'll be dealing with when I get an actual job.  One that does not afford me the freedom to spend my days battling the sporiferous nation.  Maybe by then the yard work will have become more maintenance than full-on combat.  A girl can always hope.  Until then I'll sharpen my shears, strap on my armor, and fight the good fight.

                

Mean People Are for the Birds

Since my last post ended up being kind of verbose (hey, I got a lot to say), I thought I'd make sure this one was a little lighter.  A little shorter, a little less whiny.  I start putting up epic posts and neither of us (you and me, we're a team) will keep following along.  That was the plan.  But the best-laid plans of mice and men go oft awry, and I never seem to come up with a really great plan, let alone the best.  Maybe tomorrow we'll have Spring Lite.  Maybe tomorrow my disposition will be sunny.  Maybe tomorrow I'll pass along a good joke or share my favorite cookie recipe.  But not today.  Today my heart is broken.

I went to see my dad today.  I don't go see him enough.  I miss my dad when I don't at least hear his voice on the phone a few times a week.  I've been less than stellar my whole adult life at stopping in to visit or picking up the phone to call anyone.  Even less stellar lately.  I shouldn't need a reason to go see my dad, but I had one anyway.  I found a little sink a while back for his kitchenette area he'd started in his basement but I hadn't put it in yet.  So under the guise of plumbing, I headed north to Kalama.

It was good to see my dad.  Nice to have his company, even under the pretense of plumbing.  I only sprayed myself in the face once hooking up the water lines.  We only had to make one trip to the hardware store down the hill.  We had lunch.  Chatted.  When it was time for me to head home, he walked me to my car, and I saw a peanut shell in his driveway.  So I asked about his birds. 

The birds I asked about, my dad's birds, are a family of jays he feeds from his deck.  It's not an occasional thing.  He feeds them religiously.  It started with one jay.  When the one jay was comfortable, he brought his family around.  The family of jays were so accustomed to my dad, they'd come right on up to him for their peanuts.  Happy with their situation, they stopped going south during the winter months.  Then they let Dad's grandkids feed them.  Little Si gets to feed Grandpa's birds.  Reece, not easily excited, was thrilled about feeding Grandpa's birds.  Dad keeps track of his birds.  Looks after them.  Keeps them in peanuts.  Enjoys them.  They're a part of his day.  A constant in his world.  

When he told me his birds weren't around anymore, I was surprised.  He said ten days ago he heard several shots fired from next door.  Dad hasn't seen his birds since.  He says maybe the shots he heard had nothing to do with the birds.  Maybe they'll come back.  I'm sure it's for my benefit he says this, leaving the possibility open that maybe everything's okay and I shouldn't worry about it.  "But your neighbor must have known they were your birds!"  I protested.  He hesitantly speculated the birds may have been killed because of, not despite, that fact.  That's when it happened.  That's when my heart broke.  I managed to tell my dad I was sorry and I hugged him goodbye.  I barely made it out of the driveway before I broke down.

I cried all the way out of Kalama.  I cried past Woodland.  I cried through Ridgefield and Battle Ground.  I cried all the way to my door.  I cried for my dad.  I cried for his birds.  I cried for Reece.  I cried for injustice and cruelty.  I cried for the families of the world torn apart by war.  (For what is war but the killing of birds, a dispute among neighbors that escalates to the harm of what each holds dear?)  I cried for hurt and loss and loneliness.  I cried for myself.  I cried because my heart hurt.  I cried because I was sad.  I shouldn't need a reason to cry, but I had one anyway. 


Maybe I'm too sensitive.  Too emotional.  Maybe I'm crazy, broken-hearted over a couple of scrub jays.  Maybe I had a meltdown coming.  Maybe the bird incident is the proverbial straw on this camel's back.  Or just maybe I'm the sane one for not being able to comprehend how anyone could willfully steal another man's joy.  Kill a man's birds.

In an effort to stop my tears, I tried to hate the person who made my dad's birds disappear.  But the closest I could come to hatred was pity.  In my youth, we couldn't say the word hate in my dad's house.  No other emotion was stifled, but my dad's kids were told that hatred didn't have to hold a place in them.  Maybe it was more implied than overt, but it's the message I got.  The man whose birds were stolen didn't think I needed to have hate in my heart.  I didn't.  I still don't.  For that I am glad.  Hate puts a bad cast on a person's soul. 

So maybe next post will be light.  Short and sweet.  Maybe between now and then the mean guys will have seemed less harsh to me.  Maybe the sun will come out.  Tomorrow.  Maybe I'll decide I've overreacted.  Maybe I won't worry about sending my son into a world with unneighborly neighbors lurking in the shadows.  Maybe tomorrow I'll forget all about it.  But not today.   Today my heart is broken.   

      

   

A Complement of Compliments

The best compliment ever given to me was from my mom:  "If I'm ever trapped on a deserted island I'd want you with me.  You know how to do everything!"

She didn't say she wanted me there because I was nice or smart or she loved me best.  She wanted me there because I'd be useful.   I could be good to have around in certain situations.  Eureka!  I have a purpose!  Why are we here, what is the meaning of life?  This question has played a pivotal role in countless books, debates, and hours of meditation and speculation.  Philosophers and average schmucks alike ponder the reason for our existence.  Some figure out a good enough reason to keep plugging away at life.  Some turn to religion.  Some go crazy grasping for the meaning of it all.  A few take their own lives when they can't find a satisfying answer.  These people needed my mom.  With one compliment, she justified my existence, gave me purpose on this planet.  The air I've been using up all these years has been put to good use.  I'd make a good islander.  And she might need my help. 

She gave me this compliment is because she loves me.  She also gave me this compliment because she's a complimenting fool.  I think she may have caught on to the compliment karma situation, the ol'  give some to get some rule of the universe.  Good for her.  I hope she breaks the Guinness record for compliments received.  She deserves them.  And that's a compliment.   People need compliments.  I need compliments.  Not because I have a low self esteem.  Not because I need to feel the limelight upon my face.  I need compliments because they make me feel good.  Wanted.  Appreciated.  And proud.  Pride is only a bad thing in the hands of a few.  Compliments motivate me to do more and to be better at what I'm already doing well.  I believe no person could be his/her best self without some form of outside encouragement.  Some form of compliment.  The world needs more people at their best.   

Personally, if I go a long stretch without a compliment, my psyche can be pretty dark.  I turn bitter and resentful.  I get unmotivated, uninterested, unproductive, unfriendly, and uncomplimentary.  Often, I don't even realize what's come over me until I'm given even the tiniest of compliments. Suddenly I feel as if I hit the lotto.  I smile to myself.  I feel purpose.  I've enriched someone, maybe ever so slightly, but enough they were moved to tell me.  I also get the urge to give more of me to get more compliments and give more of me.  No vicious in this cycle. 

I have too many golf clubs and not enough money, so I put a few ads on craigslist last night.  When I checked my email today, I found this note in my inbox: "Your ads are so cute I may just buy the club so I can buy you a glass of wine! You have a killer sense of humor! - Bobby"  Now, I don't know who Bobby is and I don't know how he knows I could use a glass of wine, but I truly loved the compliment.  I needed it.  It felt good.  I smiled because I made someone else smile.  Someone appreciated my humor.  It was my reason for being alive today.  I was useful.  And if someone appreciated my ad writing it's not too far of a stretch that someone might appreciate a blog entry too.  So here I am.  Thanks Bobby, you're a good compliment giver. 

When I started to write this entry, the word compliment didn't look right on the screen: is that right... hmmm... maybe complement, with an e... no, that's a different word altogether, like in math... right... no, maybe, yes, no, I don't know... sheesh.  So I went to my smartest and best spelling friend Google, who always (politely) corrects my errors.  Google came through and gave me some links.  According to Webster, a compliment is “an expression of esteem, respect, affection, or admiration; especially : an admiring remark” and a complement is “something that fills up, completes, or makes perfect” or “the quantity, number, or assortment required to make a thing complete”.  I pondered for a moment and concluded the two words are more synonymous than one might suspect. 

Google also gave me this link, to an article about a few students at Washington University who started a Compliment Club.  http://www.studlife.com/scene/2011/01/31/feeling-down-the-%E2%80%98compliment-guys%E2%80%99-are-here-to-help/  Nice work, fellas.

As for me, I hope writing this inspires somebody else to give a compliment.  Go-on, now. Give it to someone you love.  Give it to someone you appreciate.  Give it to someone you've never met who wrote a craigslist post that made you smile.  Been nice talking at you, but I gotta run:  my mom says she's "captured by my writing", so I think I ought to drive over and untie her.  Or at least tell her what a great motivator she is- compliments of her children.

All Thumbs

I'm not so good with plants.  Brown isn't dark enough to describe my thumb.  It is the blackest of blacks.  Grim Reaper Black (take that, Crayola).  Spring, Spring, Killing Machine.  Every spring when the sun comes out I get excited and try again.  The sun makes me do silly things.  Plants are dead by summer.  I've read gardening books and watched gardening shows on tv.  I've diligently fed and watered my plants.  Talked and sang to them.  Given them magic potions, more or less sun.  Tried every soil under the sun.  Each year as dead as the last.

I have killed succulents.  Do you know how hard it is to kill succulents?  They are notorious for surviving the bleakest conditions.  They thrive on neglect.  I killed them.  Dead.  One year for Christmas, my mom got me the bonsai I had been pining for.  I read up on the little guys, followed all the instructions and advice to a tee, loved it as hard as possible, and the damn thing was dead within 6 months.  When my grandma moved from her house, I was given her potted palm.  According to legend, my dad had given it to her in a terrarium when God was a child and she had raised it to the beautiful specimen that punctuated the corner of her front room.  It was moved briefly every year, displaced by the Christmas tree.  Christmas afternoon the tree came down and back went the palm.  I can't picture my grandma's house without it.  I was hesitant to take it, but they insisted.  And as is my wont, I killed it.  I tried desperately not to.  But I did it anyway.  Last year I even planted some pots with wild weeds.  These, I thought, would at least survive my cursed thumb.  No dice.  I built a mini green house and started some lettuce.  The local wildlife ate every stitch the night after I planted them into the ground.  Dee brought home two fake trees for me a few months back, "maybe you won't be able to kill these".  "Maybe", I shrugged.  We'll see.

We had one sunny day last month and I got excited again.  The sun makes me act a drunken fool.  I bought some flowers to plant.  The very second I got home, it started raining.  Hard.  It rained for the next month.  My little starters, still in plastic containers, were beat down, flowerless, soaked to the bone (or root, as it were).  I swore off gardening altogether.  But then a week ago, something strange happened.  I keep my empty pots on a low shelf outdoors in the wintertime.  On the bottom shelf was a pot I hadn't fully emptied full of foliage.  A few days after that I noticed my camellia, which had never so much as produced a green leaf, was alive and doing well.  Today I spied the little mess of plants I bought a month ago, whose lifeless carcasses I had tossed into a pile in a container I had planned on getting rid of.  Each and every one was alive.  Half were bright with flowers.  When I fished them out to replant, I revealed a hosta the size of my head, just chillin' in the discard bucket.  I'm not saying I've turned over a new leaf (pun sooo intended), but maybe this year will be different.  After all, the plastic trees are still doing quite nicely.  I have to say I'm cautiously optimistic.  Or maybe that's just the sun talking.

Blog? That's the best they could come up with?

Blog- I really dislike the word.  It doesn't roll off your tongue.  It doesn't dance.  It doesn't inspire.  It doesn't drip, snap, or crackle.  It plops.  It has a hard consonant sound, but lacks the crispness of "go" or "thug" or "crack" or "stick".  It smells a little funny. Looks like Lurky of Rainbow bright fame.  It's sticky, but not sweet.  You'd push it around your plate or feed it to the dog if it were served.  It's a maggot.  It's lazy.  It's rude.  Its the Jabba the Hut of words.  Blog.  Despicable Blog.  But I haven't the energy or the patience to wage war against a word.  I don't know that I take myself seriously enough to wage war on anything.  War is serious business, but not mine.  That's a discussion for later days, I think.  Please, stop me when I start to ramble like that... here we've been chatting familiarly almost long enough where it'd be uncomfortable to introduce (or reintroduce) myself and it'd be uncomfortable for you to ask. 

I'm Spring.  I'm the girl who fell in love with a river.  The East Fork of the Lewis River, to be more precise.  I don't suppose the names of the girl or the river matter, though, monikers having been transcended by the foolish notion of a person falling for a body of water.  I've wanted to start writing, er, blogging for awhile.    I've never kept journal.  Too bad, really.  Physically making your mark, pen on paper, is hugely satisfying.  I was here.  I have a canvas with marks on it to prove it.  Beautiful connection between mind and body.  Hand a direct extension of the brain.  There's also something therapeutic about the non-physical side of writing.  It makes me listen to what I have to say, even if I'm not saying much at all.   It's easy to start ignoring yourself.  It's harder to listen.  And if you're me, remembering is even harder still.  If I write it down, if I read what I wrote, I can remember what I told myself.  If I blog it, I can remember where I wrote it down. 

Why start today?  Here's why: it's almost midnight and my kitchen window is missing.  Really.  A few hours ago, my worse half was impaled by a clock.  My dog is neurotic.  I hurt inside and out.  Every warning light in my car is on.  Low tire pressure.  Low fuel.  Check engine.  Change oil.  I stopped wearing my seat belt so that one is on too.  I lack purpose on some days and direction on most.  I don't have a job, a path, a song, or a dime to my name.  But the sun was shining today.  My beautiful, perfect, kitchen-windowless world was illuminated.  Troubles are hard to see with the sun in your eyes.  My river whispered in my ear that I should take the night off.  Said I deserve it.  I decided to write it down so I wouldn't forget.