Places I Used to Inhabit

It is strange to be suddenly confronted with your own unconscious and habitual movements and behaviors. This happens when there is some major change in your accustomed physical environment. For instance, it has almost been three weeks since quitting smoking, yet when I’m writing and get temporarily stuck searching for the right formulation of words or thoughts, my body just stands up all on its own and walks out onto the screen porch.

Now when this happens, there is no ashtray out there. No matches. Nothing to light. So I stand there for a few seconds in a state of confusion wondering: why am I here?

And then there is the kitchen.

For the past two decades, my day began like this: I walked into the kitchen and took a sharp right. All in one place were the things I needed. The coffeemaker, the filters, the coffee, the water, and the compost bin (for yesterday’s grounds). The next ten movements I made were all so habitual that no conscious thought was necessary. And because I keep my thyroid medication on top of the coffee tin, I never forget to take it.

This morning I woke up, went down to the kitchen and took a right. I found myself standing back-to-back with a refrigerator, staring at a blank wall where my coffeemaker used to be, wondering: why am I here?

All that because . . . this is my kitchen now:

And this is my kitchen now:

And this, too,  is my kitchen now:

I forgot to take my thyroid medication for the first time in years this morning. This afternoon, I needed scissors. I walked into the kitchen and headed toward the empty wall where the scissors used to hang. Later I needed a plastic bag. I headed toward a drawer in front of the kitchen window. The frig was in my way. And of course that drawer is no longer there anyway – it is now in the bathroom. It is only a matter of time before I walk into the kitchen and simply drop my empty coffee cup, letting it smash on the floor right below where the sink used to be.

It is going to be like this for about three more weeks.

Once the new kitchen is here, I will have to learn a whole slew of new habitual movements. I have no idea yet where the coffeemaker is going to go in the new arrangement, but I am going to put A LOT of thought into it. Because this kitchen is probably going to be my last one. However it is arranged is going to determine where I go and what I do in the first five minutes of every day from now until . . . my institutionalization.

That is, assuming my institutionalization doesn’t happen sometime in the next three weeks.

 

 

Random Updates

 

Despite my flailing a bit in the blog business, there have been a few developments around here. So I am once again stealing (and adapting) Kate’s regular feature to get you all up to speed.

First stop – garden projects – mostly my husband’s, not mine (see Blackthumb’s Annual Garden Report”). Here’s the current state of the chicken house, the straw bale veggie garden, and my Florence Henderson rosebush:

   

 

Second stop – Gingerbread Man (see “He’s Back”). Spiffy again:

Third: We had a fifteenth birthday in the house, which means I now have two daughters who can drive away on their mopeds, much to my consternation:

Fourth stop – our kitchen remodeling (see “The World’s Costliest Ice Cubes”). It has now gone into high gear. Below you can see what the old kitchen looked like next to a computer projection of what the new one will (sort of) look like in about three weeks. (Full disclosure: the before picture was intentionally taken at a moment of Peak Clutter). Yesterday the window guys were here and you can see the results underneath.

 

And Fifth. Ever since first noticing the two moons perched in my Red Maple Tree (see “Tidings”), I have looked for them each morning while waiting for my coffee to brew. I found this comforting for some reason and was sort of afraid that they would disappear once the new windows were in. So this morning I was happy not only to find them again – but to see that they brought a friend!

 

He’s Back

 

Gingerbread Man left home for the first time in decades. After overhearing me talk to a colleague about my cosmetic plans for him, he had high hopes of returning a new man – fully restored to his former glory. Things turned out somewhat differently.

At first he was thrilled to finally reach a pillow in a new place, but then one day passed, and then another, and nothing happened. His euphoria waned as he heard all the kids playing and laughing just outside his window. He listened to a bunch of them spending hours and hours doing stupid soapstone carving instead of needlework. He began to doubt his time would ever come.

So on Day Three, still in his sorry, tattered, one-eyed state, he cautiously ventured out into the open air. He chose an empty chair by the campfire and sat there for a while, lonely and friendless.

But then something wonderful happened. A few girls expressed interest in him – wanted to know who he was. They weren’t at all repelled by his appearance, in fact, one of them even called him “cute”! They invited him to sit with them and later he joined them in a ball game.

      

The spiffying finally began on Day Four, but there was only time for some jacket trim repair and a preliminary procedure to restore his right eye, before it was time for everyone to head down to the pier. In the meantime, he returned to his pillow to recuperate.

      

On Departure Day, he was thrilled to be asked along on a final walk to the pier. He sat with his new friends and contemplated the beautiful lake. This was quite possibly the greatest day of his life. The water was so enticing – he couldn’t resist:

    

All too soon, it was time to get back on the bus. Gingerbread Man did so in a physical condition only slightly better than the one he arrived in. Still, he spent the ride home basking in the sunlight of poignant memories and renewed hopes for a brighter future.

Gingerbread Man. On The Road Again. Unplugged.

As some of you know, my Gingerbread Man spent many years in darkness and solitary confinement before his release from the nightstand last year. Since then he has been lying on various shelves or the bedroom floor collecting even more dust. He doesn’t understand the world anymore or what he did wrong. He misses his old life of international travel and new pillows in exotic places. He misses sunlight. He misses his right eye.

So I have decided to take him with me on my school trip. Five days at a lake in Carinthia with 27 kids (one of whom – as his mother informed us – can’t sleep without his favorite stuffed animal and he’s very afraid the others will make fun of him.) I have also decided that I am going to devote my arts and crafts time to him this week. (But he doesn’t know this – it’s a surprise, so “Ssshhhh!”) He’s going to get his eye restored and his little jacket trimming replaced. That hole in his neck will be fixed and maybe a little scarf crocheted to hide the scar. There will be general nipping and tucking and spiffying.

 

So you’ve got the “Before” picture here. The “After” one will be coming in about 6 days. In the meantime we two will be offline at our cell-free camp – so have a nice week! We’ll miss you!

 

Blackthumb’s Annual Garden Report

 

I recently noticed that among my blogging homies – the reciprocal ones – there are a lot of avid and competent gardeners. This probably has something to do with Ly. It certainly doesn’t come from the content of my blog or my own interests. Over the years, my gardening activity has slowly been reduced to about once every 365 days. In fact, I now recognize the official beginning of spring as that one day in April or May when I suddenly get the urge to venture out into the mysterious world of green things and take a few whacks at stuff. For the year 2017, today was that day.

Here’s the blow-by-blow.

I set out shortly after noon with trowel in hand and the best of intentions. First task: sumac removal from my flower beds. Unfortunately, one of the sprouts – now tree-sized and requiring the use of a saw – was growing up in the middle of thorny and uncooperative rosebush. Before going at it, I donned a jacket, put the hood up and tied it tight around my hair. For some reason, doing this always makes me want to bop my head around and sing “It’s raisins that make Post Raisin Bran so wonderful . . .” – so I did that for a while first. I then crawled into the rosebush and got sawed by thorns as I sawed the sumac. After it toppled, I got my revenge on the bush by whacking off one dead branch after another from the bottom up. About halfway through on one side, I realized I probably should have done that first – before tackling the sumac. I surveyed the bush, which was now sort of lopsided, but somehow, viewed from a certain angle, reminded me of a 1960s hairstyle. The theme song of “The Brady Bunch” started playing in my head. I decided to leave the rest of the pruning for later. It was time for a break and some regrouping.

 

 

I joined Cat Five on the screen porch and we watched the husband and Hayez working on the dream coop. I yelled down that it looked slanted, prompting my affronted husband to immediately prove me wrong with the level and then gesture his superiority in Usain Bolt style. Then I headed back to the flower bed for more sumac removal, getting sidetracked along the way by some moth porn going on right outside my front door:

After the second sumac was toppled and second rose half-pruned, it suddenly seemed like a good time to inspect our cherry tree. I wanted to see if it had suffered the same fate as our walnuts in the early April freeze. But first I needed my camera because, firstly, a new blog post was starting to take form in my mind which I would need some graphics for and secondly, because my husband refuses to believe that a single cherry has ever grown on this tree which is why he refuses to help me hang old CDs on the tree to scare away the birds who are obviously eating all of our cherries. It has been a two decade long debate and after the level incident earlier, I wanted to win an argument. I needed photographic proof. So I went inside to get the camera. While I was at it, I checked MSNBC to see if anything had been happening while I was away.

 

About a half hour later, I found a total of about 10 cherries on the entire tree.  Here is a challenge for you – can you find three of them in this picture?

 

 

Seeing as how I had my camera in hand, I also decided to document the progress of my husband’s other new garden project – a straw bale vegetable patch. He had heard about this somewhere and promptly decided to try it out. Supposedly, the straw starts to ferment, creating heat which makes the plants grow better.

“Doesn’t that stink?” I asked.

“We’ll find out,” he answered.

I suddenly wished he had set it up a bit farther away from the house and not right below my sacred screen porch where I spend half my time in summer.

By the time I reached the flower bed for the third time, I could feel that my enthusiasm for gardening was waning. I halfheartedly raked some dead leaves out of it here and there and pulled up a few green things which I hope were weeds. My stomach started grumbling and I remembered that there was a package of chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen cabinet. I dropped my garden tools and went back inside only to discover that SOMEONE had gotten to them before me. I wandered out onto the porch and saw my husband just standing down there in the garden, contemplating his coop. He was dreaming of the poodle chickens in his future, I assumed.

 

If only that were true.

I called down to him, asking where the fencing would go once he was done with the coop. He pointed to various dead-blossomed trees as the general boundary markers of our future free range. It was only about a third of the area he was tired of mowing (the original impetus for the whole keeping of chickens idea). I pointed that fact out to him.

“What we really need,” he said, “is a sheep.”

 

And thus ended my gardening fervor for 2017.

I’ll go out sometime next week and pick up the gardening tools. The rosebushes can spend the year in Florence Henderson style. Any flowers too wimpy to push their way up through those remaining dead leaves and weeds don’t deserve any special attention. And who likes cherries anyway?

 

Fritz the Sheep

My elder daughter broached the subject of when she should start her Driver’s Ed course. Boy, was that a mistake. Not only did it bring back my own memories of Austrian Driving School, but she was really jumping the gun here!

“You know I am going to be 18 next summer,” she said.

“No you’re not.”

Moooomm!

“You are NOT! At least not if I have anything to say about it!”

We quickly agreed that this license thing was a topic she should take up with her Papa.

 

18! My first baby is going to be 18 next year! And the way time has sped up since we’ve had her – this is going to feel like . . . next month!

I suddenly remembered a box of little treasures I kept upstairs in my closet, because I’d had a vague plan of giving it to her on her 18th birthday. I dragged it out and found the blanket she was wrapped in when I first held her, the first baby bottle we used, her baptism presents and dress, her first stuffed animal . . .

And then I found these:

During the adoption process, I was teaching the third of a four year course and had developed a close relationship with a lot of my students. They were aware of my situation and even a little emotionally involved. When we came home with Mitzi, a lot of them visited us with presents in hand.  That is how this little stuffed sheep – whom we named Fritz – became Mitzi’s Velveteen Rabbit for a while. Two other students later presented me with the book “Fritz the Sheep”. They had drawn all the pictures and written the text themselves. Some people are so incredibly thoughtful and good at gift-giving! (I’m not one of them.) I adored this book from the start and displayed it prominently in my house. Unfortunately, it suffered a little water damage once when a wild thunderstorm blew open the porch door and caused some minor flooding. And Fritz himself is also looking a bit forlorn. But both still qualify as priceless. So I’ve decided to share them.

Here’s the (translated summary of the) story:

Fritz the Sheep lives in a nice place outside a small village, but for some reason, he is a little sad and a little lonely. He decides to take a walkabout.

 

He meets Lisa the Cow and tells her about his travels. Lisa doesn’t really understand why he isn’t satisfied.

 

Fritz meets Pino the Woodpecker. (Let it be known here that “Pino” was the nickname of one of the authors.) Pino tells Fritz that what he is really looking for is happiness and tries to teach him to fly. It doesn’t work out well.

 

As Fritz wanders away, Pino decides he could still help. He brings Fritz to a birdhouse where they meet Gina the Cat. (Let it be known that our Cat One was named Gina.) Gina is nasty and makes fun of Fritz at first, but after Pino flatters her, she decides to help. And, deep down, she is wise and has a good heart.

 

Gina leads them to a house, telling Fritz that she spends a lot of time there.  (Just like our house at the time, there is a rocking chair on the front porch, a basketball stand and a blue car.) Fritz asks why they are there. Gina tells him to figure it out for himself and takes off.

 

Fritz is greeted by a barking gray woolly sheepdog named Whitney. (Long-time blog readers will know her as “Dog Two” – and if they look closely down the hallway, they will see “The Nemesis”.) Whitney makes it clear to Fritz that no one can come in here – unless, of course, they have a reason to . . . then it’s okay.

 

Fritz saunters into the house and then goes out to the terrace where he finds me reading to Mitzi – who doesn’t look at all sleepy. He has an idea.

 

Fritz starts jumping over the fence again and again until Maria gets tired and falls asleep. This makes Fritz happy and he decides to stay with this family till the end of his days.

 

(The End)

 

So, the plan was to give these things to Mitzi on her 18th birthday – that is what a thoughtful and great gift-giver would do. (Did I mention I am not one of them?) But I suddenly find myself having a little trouble with the thought of letting precious things go. Maybe she will just have to wait a bit longer – like . . . say . . . until she has her own first child (assuming that happens).

Serves her right for growing up so fast.

 

No Poodle Chickens Please

When it comes to people, I am eternally vigilant about racism and especially my own subconscious biases. But when it comes to other species – in particular, dogs – I’m a self-proclaimed bigot. Big friendly mutts from the animal shelter are superior. Plain and simple. Pure breeds are either wimps or hypochondriacs and hardly worth the expense of the brand name. Anything smaller than a breadbox is not a dog at all, but a barking rat. And don’t get me started on poodles.

My veterinarian has a doggie hairdresser who shares space in her practice. I once had to sit for quite a while in the waiting room several times over a period of two days. I watched perfectly respectable looking dogs (collies, retrievers, labradors, etc.) being dragged into the hairdresser’s room and, one by one, emerging as poodles. With puffy heads and tuft balls around their paws. People claim dogs don’t have feelings, but these animals were clearly mortified. After the fourth time, I had to get up and leave the waiting room to hide my laughter.

I tried googling for pictures to give a sense of what I am talking about here. I tried different search terms but found nothing. And then I tried something that ended with me laughing hysterically for about 20 minutes. Try it if you need some comic relief. Search google images for “dogs with bad haircuts”. Here’s a little taste:

 

How did I get on this subject? Well, it is my husband’s birthday. He’s been hinting a lot that he wants to jump on the chicken bandwagon. It has become fashionable in our circle of acquaintances to keep one’s own chickens and brag about how many eggs one gets each week. Now that his brother is doing it, the argument has come to a head. Right up to yesterday, my stance was “Read my lips. No chickens.” But then his birthday rolled around and I had no idea what to get him. I panicked.

Today he got a chicken feeder, water contraption, fake eggs,  a soft-boiled egg cooker, and the implicit permission to start building his dream coop.

There was one condition, though. He’s not allowed to have any Silkies – a particularly popular breed right now that lays pastel colored eggs. I think this picture will make it clear where this objection comes from: