What I Learned in Third Grade

"Wildflower" include dandelions. They're flowers. They're wild. I hate them.

White dandelion puff balls covered our "lawn" last week. It's not a lawn, of course, but it's green if you mow the collection of weeds regularly. But dandelions just duck when the mower comes by and then stand up again and make faces at your back.

When I was in third grade, old Mr. Shoemaker lived across the street from Patty Brock. Just down the block from us. He waged war on dandelions in his neat denim overalls, doubled over at the waist, since, I guess he couldn't kneel or squat very well. He spent hours plucking dandelions out of his pretty lawn. It was 1969, so lawn chemicals weren't yet in fashion!

Another old man lived across the street in the other direction. If I ever knew his name, I can't remember it now. I only met him once. I think it was Patty, or maybe my sister, who went with me to knock on his door to ask if we could collect some leaves from his huge trees for a school project. The name Catalpa, from his huge-leafed tree, always reminds me of that afternoon.



Our neighbor walked us through his front and back yards, narrating the names and habits of his impressive collection. I pressed the leaves we collected from him between sheets of wax paper, under a couple of volumes from the encyclopedia set.

If Catalpa entered my vocabulary from across the street, Lilac and Elm and Hackberry, Honeysuckle and Lily of the Valley came from our own home.

The Lilac marked the north boundary of the front yard. Running from the end of the sidewalk to grab a branch of the lilac meant you were safe at 3rd base. The first of May meant "borrowing" Mom's scissors to cut bunches of the sweet-smelling Lilacs to stuff in a hand made paper basket and hang from the neighbor's doorknob, ringing the bell and running to hide and watch as she retrieved them.



Honeysuckle grew by the concrete posts of the front porch, and Lily of the Valley grew off the side porch. Both their fragrances are unmistakable, and send me immediately back to my eight year old self on a summer night, chasing lightening bugs with the whole neighborhood, to put in jars with nail holes in the lid.

The Elm and Hackberry trees were our playhouses, until the Elm died of "Dutch Elm Disease." The cut-up trunk and branches made even better imaginary landscapes for a while.

At least that's how I remember it. Maybe next time my sister, and mom and I get together we can compare notes and see if my memory is correct.

Who's in Charge Here?

Being a visual/tactile type person, and easily distractable, the shape and texture and color of my houseplants constantly attracts my attention. At this moment, the spiky, red Dracaena is peaking over the back of the couch. A small, rough Douglas Fir moves rhythmically under the ceiling fan in the kitchen. The Peace Lily graces the room with a few shiny, slick new leaves and two pointed, white blossoms.

It's hard to find a spot on the kitchen counter at times. You have to give the small pots of Pothos a shove with the back of your forearm to make a spot for the cookie sheet in your hand or if you want space for a cooling rack. The other day Melissa was searching the cabinets for the green Tupperware mixing bowl when I reminded her it was full of the new Hydrangea plants I was soaking so I could set them out. She wondered aloud if there was a flower pot free somewhere she could use to mix her cake.

Very funny.

If I go missing, please look behind the 8-foot Ficus in the den.

Ode to Dirt in my Nails

It's hard to explain why hours and hours of hard work in the sun and wind can be so utterly satisfying. Healing even.

Oklahoma, this April weekend, turned out to be a great place to be outdoors. So I pretty much lived outside all day Saturday and for a while on Sunday. When I'm working in my garden or the yard I can breathe and I can think.

I spent most of the time making wire fencing arched covers over the curved rows I've planted to keep the wild critters from eating everything before it has a chance to grow, and to keep my big-footed giant dog from walking through it, leaving huge paw craters in the tiny lettuce sprouts.

I planted a few more flowers. As usual. I'm really gonna stop now. Planting more flowers and veggies, that is. It's getting hard to keep up without a better system of watering, and without a few more free hours in my work week.

It's a combination of creative thought and physical labor that makes it a pleasure. It's the miracle of seeds producing little sprouts, producing leaves producing blossoms and fruit. It's the sun and the wind on my skin. It's the taste of a sweet pea, or a warm tomato straight from the vine.



It's participating in something that has endured for millenia, but is fresh every morning when the sun sparkles on the water spray over the deep green of that cabbage that mysteriously grew three inches since yesterday and the goose bumps rise on my arms from the cool morning breeze and dew on my shoes.

Trash Garden

Only a portion of my spring plants were in the ground and the Okie wind was howling relentlessly, tearing at those delicate little baby plants. So, at 6:30 a.m. on Wednesday, I was in the kitchen, sawing the bottoms off of every plastic container I could find.

Then I sailed across the yard with the blue flashlight in one hand, and the bottomless plastic collection flying behind me in the wind in a trash bag.

I anchored the trash bag in the shed, watered my leaning plant-lets, and quickly pushed a protective container around each.





The wind continued into early this morning (Friday) when a storm finally broke tension, but everybody in the garden looks very happy today.

Next time I do an early morning, before-work garden wind-protection operation, however, I'll remember to apply my hair straightener product first, thus completing two tasks at once.