WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Mary, Mary, quite contrary – how does your garden grow?

On this morning’s walk, I passed a gorgeous group of pale pink shrub roses which lined the entire edge of a chain-link fence. The roses grew so abundantly on either side of the fence, you could barely see the metal. You don’t have to ask if I stopped to smell them; the scent was so fragrant I smelled the roses before they were in my line of sight. Contributing to the heavenly essence, was the high humidity and an automatic sprinkler system nearby which was gently misting the blooms. I would call it potpourri for the soul.

I have pink Bonica miniature shrub roses which bloom profusely year after year and never fail to disappoint with their ever-blooming pale pink buds and blossoms and very easy maintenance. I have a salmon-colored “Dream Cloud” rosebush which I bought for $1.00 at Frank’s Nursery. It looked pitifully small and bare and no doubt the store almost tossed it and was grateful to sell it for a buck. I am happy to say that my TLC caused this rose to rally and it is now nearly thirty years old. My group of red Knock Out “Home Run” shrub roses encompass half the length of the fence and tower over me. In the morning, the dew on the roses creates a scent so heady that it will take your breath away. I really do love roses.

When I was a novice gardener, I bought a half-dozen tea rosebushes because I thought delicate tea roses were the epitome of rose perfection – fragile, perfect colors or color blends and quite often named for famous people. However, I had no success with tea roses; it seemed it took forever for one or two buds to form and once they opened, they were spent within a day leaving the rosebush looking bare for weeks on end. Frustrated with their fleeting beauty in the yard, I pulled every tea rosebush out, which was no easy feat as they had big, established roots, were very thorny and extremely hard to grab and pull. I got ‘er done and immediately planted the Knock Out roses in their place. In 2010, I created a memorial garden for my mom who had passed away in January. For years I coveted climbing roses, so after studying the “Jackson and Perkins” catalog, I ordered an umbrella trellis and three “Stairway to Heaven” red climbing rosebushes. They were bare root roses – a first for me. They arrived via UPS and needed to be soaked immediately in a bucket of water for 24 hours, then planted and dirt mounded over the wild-looking roots, then watered. Good enough, except I planted them in the morning and we had a horrific torrential rainstorm that evening. I was afraid to go out the next day in case they had floated down to Fort Street. That was not their downfall, but the climbing rosebushes never climbed nor amounted to anything resembling the pictures touted by J&P in their catalog. They finally succumbed to black spot. I treated them for that disease on an almost-weekly basis but they always were leafless, looked stringy and scraggly and rarely bloomed, so sadly I discarded them and planted hardier Twist-and-Shout hydrangeas in their stead.

Well, enough of me and how my garden grows….

This post is mainly about Mary, my next-door neighbor from many years ago. When we moved to Lincoln Park in 1966, she was already in her 80s and an avid gardener. She had lived in her home since she first was married and her husband bought her one pale pink rosebush to celebrate their new life together. She often told us a tale of how money was scarce in those days. She stayed home with the kids, while her husband, a tailor in a downtown haberdashery, rode the bus to and from work for a menial wage. They never had a car, and she never learned how to drive. Her husband’s gift of the rosebush commemorating their nuptials and new house, was extravagant for them, because Mary said bills needed to be paid, food must be put on the table, and soon children came along, thus flowers were not a necessity, but a luxury, and one they could ill afford. It was understood that this one rosebush would suffice to beautify their humble home until they were “in the chips”.

Mary had such success with this rosebush, she decided to take cuttings, or propagate, from the established rosebush to make new ones. She told us that she effortlessly grafted and grew several new rosebushes. They thrived and soon there were tiny rosebushes dotting the back garden. Spurred on by her success on these fledgling rosebushes, she told us she spaded the grass out to enlarge the garden area, and persuaded her husband to get a load of good soil and soon she had small rosebushes lining the entire perimeter of her yard. When we moved here in 1966, there were very few empty spots of earth in her perimeter gardens to put one more pink rosebush, but still, you would see her “starting” a new rosebush, tenderly placing a cutting under a glass jar which acted as a hothouse in the searing sun. She was proud of what she considered “her own roses” but occasionally, well-meaning friends or relatives brought her a new rosebush as a present. She would accept the gift, but the new rosebush was relegated to a corner of her yard away from “her own roses” and it was almost as if she resented the rosebush intruding on her pink collection. There is still a huge cerise-colored rosebush tucked into the corner by my side door.

Mary was widowed in her early 70s and with her kids off and married, gardening became even more of a passion; that, and playing cards with the other seniors at the Lincoln Park Senior Center. She was remarkably agile for her age and she was out bending over almost to the ground weeding, or standing for long periods of time, pruning or deadheading her beautiful blooms at the crack of dawn. Here was this woman, throughout her 90s, with the strength of a mule, hauling the hose around the yard – no hose reel for her. Then she’d bolt into the house to get cleaned up and slick on some lipstick to trot over to the Senior Center around the corner to visit with her Hungarian friends. Often she brought her cronies back for a tour of the yard. They would all cackle at the top of their lungs in Hungarian, partly since Mary was nearly deaf, thus allowing her to hear them and then she would respond in kind. Sometimes it was deafening. She refused to wear hearing aids and shouted at everyone.

She was a large, big-boned woman with somewhat wild-looking curly hair and quite a presence. The neighborhood kids were scared of her because she barked at anyone who dared cross her front yard. She was polite to our family because my mom handed over occasional baked goodies and my father always shoveled her snow. She mowed her own lawn, until she went into the nursing home, unbelievably with a push mower. Our house must have passed muster with her as the only thing she did destructive was prune our hydrangeas which grew through the fence against her roses. The elderly neighbors on the other side had a row of plum trees which grew parallel to the fence. On the occasion when plums would drop off into her yard, she’d hurl them back over the fence, as if they were somehow offensive to her. She didn’t like teenagers much either. She once turned the sprinkler on a young teen neighbor’s lime green mustang which was parked in front of her house. The car had its convertible top down and she promptly put the sprinkler on just enough to soak the interior and make it a sopping mess. If you’ve heard the expression “an old bag”, well that definition fit her to a “T” – she was the ornery female equivalent of the late Andy Rooney.

This was the life of Mary and her daily Summer routine until, in her very late 90s, she became ill and had to go into a nursing home. She had been widowed so many years and her family did not live nearby and there was no one to help take care of her.

The picture above is my mom in Mary’s garden. The picture does not do justice to the beautiful yard; it is but one tiny snippet of the bounty of pale pink roses.

We never saw Mary once she entered the nursing home. The house was closed up, the mail stopped and a distant relative paid to have snow removal and lawn mowing done, both on a very occasional basis. Though the house now languished unkempt, unloved and neglected for over two years, that backyard of Mary’s flourished, and the rosebushes were just as strong and hardy, as they’d ever been. Sometimes I’d thread my hose through the chain-link fence and give them a good drink of water; after all it behooved us to keep such beautiful flowers alive to enjoy them vicariously across the fence, even if no one else gave a whit about them. A granddaughter and her boyfriend moved in for a few months, but she never set foot in the yard, and he mowed the lawn, quite reluctantly, at the speed of sound, then hurriedly stashed the mower in the hut and returned to the house and shut the door. Still the roses survived … and thrived.

Then, along came Jim, who sold his large parcel of land in Taylor and moved into Mary’s house. He brought large yard ornaments to his new digs: a full-sized trailer, a small camper and a boat, all which he stored in his driveway until he whacked down the ornamental fence, and all the rosebushes lining the entrance and side of the yard. He also cut down a huge tree so that he could work on his van in the yard. Such a waste of beauty – it made me sad to see the huge bonfire in the fire pit he made, as he tossed one rosebush after another into the blaze.

Today, some of those grand old rosebushes still grace my neighbor Marge’s yard … they are at least seventy or more years old now and still growing strong.

A single rose can be my garden…
a single friend, my world.
– Leo Buscaglia

Today is National Lemonade Day. I wonder how many kids set up lemonade stands anymore? All you need is a big canister of Country Time lemonade crystals, a jug of water, a big stir stick, some plastic cups and you’re good to go. That is, unless you’re a purist and insist on making your own lemonade, i.e. buying fresh lemons, squeezing them, grating the rind to make some zest and floating a few slices of lemon on top for added pizzazz. Kids: opt for the Country Time and make it easy on yourself, but do get that mixture just right … not too sour or you’ll have everyone puckering up, not too grainy where the crystals sink to the bottom of the jug like sand in the ocean, and please don’t be stingy when scooping or your lemonade will taste like the lemon ran through the water.

I never see any kids in the neighborhood hawking lemonade … we’ve got alot of parks with baseball games going on all the time or soccer practice – they could even set up shop at Council Point Park. I did hear on the national news awhile back that some kids were trying to make a few bucks with a lemonade stand and got ripped off by some bullies. The young entrepreneurs lost all their substantial profits as well as their faith in mankind. The audacity! It leaves a sour taste in my mouth, if you’ll pardon the pun.

I remember setting up a Kool-Aid stand with a childhood friend here in Michigan. We didn’t get much action though at our small table set up in the apron of the driveway, and at day’s end the ice had melted and watered down our product after hours of sitting out in the hot sun. Location, location, location!!!

I was never allowed to drink pop as a kid. My mom wanted to preserve my pearly whites against cavities so I was only given milk or freshly squeezed orange juice which was very tart. Once in a great while I’d steal a sip of my Dad’s Bitter Lemon drink when he left the bottle unattended. I don’t think I tasted lemonade until I was in my teens, if not later.

Well the people who create events like National Lemonade Day must have been prophetic to pick well in advance one of the handful of days it has actually been hot this Summer. Today was an Ozone Action Day and the heat and humidity have made their second cameo appearance this Summer … for a couple of days anyway.

Tropical is always topical when it comes to weather. At the grocery store, two complete strangers can strike up a conversation about the weather then just walk away. This morning, at Council Point Park, two walkers passing on the path, like two ships in the night, just have to pause to remark how hot it is and ask what happened to the refreshing weather we’ve enjoyed the last few weeks. I saw a few walkers toting water bottles and mopping their brow with a towel. Well folks, this is the reward for the people who whined that the Summer of 2013 had passed us by. I think they are in the minority, don’t you? I certainly don’t welcome the sticky weather, but when life gives you lemons, make lemonade – I went on a walk anyway. Halfway through my walk, I realized I had over-dressed and I was getting warm and had no layers to remove and still be decent. (Smile) I passed a tall spruce tree which was aromatic in the humid air, and even it could not evoke memories of Christmas, cold weather or sipping steaming mugs of hot cocoa with marshmallows. There was no chilling effect when I passed a huge snowball bush laden with snowballs either. It was too early for the Good Humor truck thus nothing could conjure up any cold images to cool me off and I came home feeling like a limp rag. I swigged down some chocolate milk, my daily treat when I return from walking, but you know … a cold lemonade would have surely hit the spot. I should have headed over to 7-Eleven where they were giving away bottles of Snapple lemonade today.

Today’s a big-time SPF day … so ASAP pick yourself a pair of protective sunglasses (or cheap sunglasses if you’re a ZZ Top fan), a floppy straw hat and slather on some sunscreen with a high SPF or sun protection factor. Hey, maybe even dab some zinc on the tip of the old schnoz. I usually wear long-sleeved shirts and pants while working in the yard or walking, and despite all the miles I’ve logged so far this year I’m still my same old pasty-looking self. I fried my skin enough when I was a teenager with sunlamps, artful positioning of aluminum foil to reflect on my face or just laying out in the sun for an all-body glow. Well, I can’t undo any damage I did as a carefree teen, but I can be careful going forward. Nowadays, I always slick on some 30 SPF lip protection because I can’t be having chapped lips – I enjoy the gift of gab way too much and besides how will I whistle back at the birds?

What’s with all the acronyms in the world anyway? I’ll admit the words “sun protection factor” have too many letters to fit on the side of a tube of lip gloss. While brevity is the soul of wit, shortcuts for words and phrases are OK most of the time, but sometimes acronyms can leave you scratching your head; e.g. – if you Google an acronym and that combo of letters has multiple meanings. OMG, now there’s a dilemma – what do you do now?

Acronyms are often the preferred way to communicate with people if you text a lot. I’m such a dinosaur about texting that I’ve never gotten into that fad. I have a load-as-you-go cell phone just for emergencies and I rarely, if ever, use my phone, let alone use it to send text messages. Very occasionally, I will text to a few friends or my boss when his Blackberry e-mail is down, but this is done from my computer. In order to whittle down my message to a mere 140 characters, I type the message into a Word document, click to determine character count, then decide what I need to remove (usually most of it) – LOL. It takes me forever to shorten up what’s on my mind using what pitiful few abbreviations I know. I’ve not memorized the gazillion acronyms or text message abbreviations that are out there.

This website has more than a few of them: http://www.webopedia.com/quick_ref/textmessageabbreviations.asp

Likewise I’ve not taken to Twitter either. I spend the bulk of my day in front of a computer screen between work, catching up on e-mail or social media sites and now there’s writing and posting blogs. Enough already! I hop onto Facebook maybe three times a day but don’t camp out there. I follow various news media sites for breaking news events and enjoy National Geographic, Old Farmer’s Almanac and some beautiful photo sites but that is about all. Twice I’ve hooked up with “Downriver Things That Aren’t There Anymore” then left the group as I was overwhelmed by so many posts. Alas, this ol’ gal is not wedded to social media, but I still feel like a new millennium woman because I am a virtual secretary. I work from home as a legal secretary and remote into my desktop 13 miles away. I love this arrangement!! I did volunteer to forward my work phone to home, but my boss said clients and colleagues are more apt to connect via e-mail these days if they are in crisis mode or hook up with him on his cell phone first. People rarely even send faxes anymore. Robb is a labor attorney for the management side so crises are often the order of the day. I am able to perform all secretarial duties except answer the door, post the mail and make coffee – unfortunately the “long arm of the law” does not extend that far. I can even tell my boss when to change the toner in the xerox machine or if the paper trays need to be filled up. (Smarty pants!!)

SYL (A/K/A “See you later”)

Today’s tidbits from the tranquil trail …

So blessed to have yet another beautiful morning. When I arrived at Council Point Park it was still a little hazy out. There was a heavy dew, so heavy in fact that the park benches along the perimeter path had water droplets poised in lines along each slatted wood bench back. The grass was saturated with dew and smelled like a freshly mowed lawn in April. The mist was prevalent but finally the sun was strong enough to filter through the trees and the sunbeams looked like spotlights trained onto the path. This part of the path is in an open area and it was quite ethereal-looking to walk right through this sunbeam from Heaven. The sun was not really warm, but the rays permeated the Park and the phenomenon only lasted a few minutes. By then I was on the Ecorse Creek side of the Park and it was dense there so the sunbeam was no longer visible.

A lone male mallard duck glided through the still water, its wide webbed feet propelling it forward at a remarkable speed. Tiny ripples appeared as it traversed the exact middle of the Creek. Just then, a dragonfly flitted by me and flew toward the water and while I was watching it, I heard a splash, and looked to see the duck go kerplunk into the water and all I saw was a flash of tail and large ripples. I was curious what the duck found for his breakfast and I waited on him to resurface. I peered through the brush but the thick reeds obliterated him from my sight. By then the filmy, delicate dragonfly had also escaped my sightline so I travelled on.

A trio of squirrels scampered about and were seemingly oblivious to me as they chased each other up and down a tree then surrounded me briefly again. I couldn’t tell who was tagged “it” and I am not sure they knew either. I caught up with the trio around the bend where they were enjoying an unexpected treat, some corn which was scattered on the path. Evidently, some kindly soul had stripped a corncob and left the kernels of corn sprinkled in a row down the pathway much like Elliott did with his Reese Pieces to temp E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial, out of his hiding place in the woods.

The birdsong was simply magnificent and always is intensified on a quiet early morning. The tweets, whistles and warbles are a balm to the ear. I kept mimicking the bird calls as long I could, much to the delight of the birds and … well, I enjoyed it too! I made a mental note to check out my favorite birdsong website http://www.enature.com/birding/audio.asp and refresh my memory on the various birds at the Park. The site is a treasure trove of pictures, descriptions and audio of every type of bird imaginable. It sends Buddy into a tizzy whenever I listen though – he’ll cock his head and wonder where the heck the other bird is.

Every one of my senses was renewed by this detour from the city and brief escape to the country. I wished I would have brought my binoculars to get a close-up view of the dragonfly’s delicate wings but I saw him anyway with just my naked eye. Had I brought a camera along, I would have snapped a picture of those happy squirrels, but instead I’ve captured their crazy antics and corn-eating camaraderie in my mind’s eye and will carry that image along with me instead.

Carpe Diem – seize the moment and the day … I did.

It was a perfect day for any outdoor activity be it a journey to travel back in time or a journey to give others more time going forward.

The weather was picture perfect – let’s bottle this entire day up and uncork it on a cold, gray January morn when we have the mid-Winter doldrums and we don’t need the groundhog to confirm for us that Winter is still looming large.

I left for my walk later this morning and saw more folks than I usually do. I came upon a pair of pre-teen girls twisting to and fro while “working” bright pink hula hoops. The girls were spinning the hoops around their waist and were able to keep it in place alot longer than I ever could. The hula hoop spent more time encircling my feet than my waist. I complimented each girl and suggested they should throw on a poodle skirt and hike their hair into a ponytail and head over to the Dream Cruise as a diversion for the car enthusiasts. I got a couple of giggles for my recommendation to them, but, yes – they were that good.

The granddaddy of all cruises, the Woodward Dream Cruise, had a parade of classic cars gunnin’ their motors and rarin’ to go at 8:00 a.m. but you know they’ve been ready and trolling down Woodward Avenue all week, much to the chagrin of the locals. With no excessive heat or humidity today, the vintage vehicles rolled down the first paved road in America with convertible tops down and no overheating of the buggies or their occupants. I’ve been listening to radio station WOMC’s 104 favorite cruisin’ songs all day. Buddy has been singing at the top of his lungs to all the oldies too. He especially liked Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman” but has a hard time perfecting that growl. (Smile.)

As I write this post, he is still singing, non-stop – he will sleep well tonight as will I since I got a four-mile walk under my belt this morning. I was enjoying my walk so much, I kept extending it a few more blocks until the pedometer said 8,000 steps. Yikes! Hopefully the extra steps will not cause me shin splints tomorrow.

Speaking of walking extra miles, on the other side of town a contingent of walkers are striding to wipe out breast cancer on Day 2 of the Breast Cancer Three-Day Walk. It is a grueling 60-mile course, with a goal of 20 miles per day. Blessings to the survivors and kudos to the walkers in this worthy endeavor. May the contributions you collected for your efforts this weekend go toward one day eradicating this dreaded disease. Keep the faith – sometimes it’s all we’ve got.

Garden flags are here, there and everywhere. No matter the neighborhood locale, garden flags seem to be more popular every year and nearly each home has one displayed in the front yard. What probably began as inexpensive yard art a few years ago has grown to be an opportunity to showcase a theme garden, celebrate a holiday or just say “Welcome”. Most of the garden flags are small but some are the size of a regular flag. I’m a person who is prone to reading bumper stickers, tee-shirt sayings and trying to connect the dots on sometimes obscure personalized license plates. I always try to read the sentiment on garden flags too. One flag I regularly pass features a glass of wine that says “Wine a bit – you’ll feel better” … now that tickles me. But, what really overwhelms me each time I see it is a large flag featuring a life-sized head and shoulders image of a youthful Elvis Presley along with the phrase proclaiming “Long Live The King”.

So, I thought it was only fitting that I should walk down this street today to see if any additional tributes to Elvis were apparent on this, the 36th anniversary of his August 16, 1977 death.

In my teenaged days, I loved Elvis, as did countless other women and young girls. I liked studying old magazine pics of the shy young Elvis who crooned “That’s All Right Mama” on Sun records, but I positively swooned over the man with the swagger, the curled lip, the perfectly coiffed hair and who oozed sex appeal. The fact that he could look like that plus belt out heart-wrenching tunes made me, the impressionable teenager, melt down to my toes. I spent alot of time at Kresge’s record department when I was a teen. I’d run down to get the WKNR Keener 13 Weekly Music Guide, maybe replenish my supply of yellow plastic 45 inserts to use on my phonograph or perhaps add a new record to my wish list. I would part with some of my allowance to buy Elvis 45s like “Suspicious Minds”, “In the Ghetto” and “Don’t Cry Daddy” … I spun those three records repeatedly on my portable record player and I wonder now how the grooves were still embedded in the vinyl. I memorized the lyrics and mouthed them along with Elvis while sitting cross-legged on my bed in my pajamas with pink curlers in my hair, or while dancing around the bedroom after slicking on pink bubblegum lip gloss in an effort to look as grown-up as possible. I often carried my mom’s old Hitachi transistor radio with me and would clap it to my ear whenever an Elvis song came on. I’d crank up the volume and the serpentine earpiece would vibrate and blast my one eardrum. I was not allowed to put posters or magazine pictures on my bedroom wall so I had to be content with thumbing through well-worn issues of “Tiger Beat” or “16” which were magazines that featured Elvis and other heartthrobs regularly.

For my 20th birthday, my parents took me to the Golden Nugget lounge where Wade Cummins, a/k/a “Elvis Wade”, was performing. Elvis Wade’s act was billed as the ultimate tribute to The King and the only Elvis tribute performance for which Elvis Presley gave a standing ovation. It was a wonderful evening – the lights and music mesmerized you into believing you were at a real Elvis concert. Elvis Wade looked and sounded like his namesake. His coal black hair was slicked into a perfect pompadour and he wore wide mutton chops. He donned a garish white jumpsuit and chunky jewelry, particularly Elvis’ trademark “TCB” ring and medallion. He gyrated on stage and occasionally stepped down into the audience to get up close and personal with the ladies, both old and young. We had a table close to the stage. Someone alerted him it was my birthday and he came over and pecked me on the cheek. I turned twenty shades of red and then he blew me a kiss and stepped away. Once he returned to the stage, he looked me right in the eyes while crooning “Teddy Bear” then threw me a sweat-soaked scarf. I caught it and clutched it to my bosom just like he was the “real deal” – for years I had that silly scarf and I think it is packed away with my scrapbooks and similar mementos. Yup, Elvis Wade perfected the moves, the charm and the charisma of “EP”; when he brought each recognizable song in Elvis’ huge repertoire to life, it was so very easy to get caught up in the moment.

Writing about Elvis Wade has prompted me to jump on YouTube to look for any videos of him performing and there were several. He also has a large website. Cummins has aged and is heavier (well … haven’t we all?) and he now resembles the later pictures we glimpsed of Elvis on the front page of all the tabloids in the months before his untimely death. Feeling further nostalgic, I then noodled around YouTube and found some of my favorite Elvis Presley tunes from concert videos. I watched them twice – once just to immerse myself in the whole Elvis experience and to sing along, miraculously remembering every lyric. Then, I watched the videos again merely to compare the pair – well, with a fresh eye, there is simply no comparison. There is only one inimitable King. Those concerts in the late 60s showed an Elvis so full of life, sweat pouring down his face making that perfectly coiffed pompadour droop just a little. Elvis’ pure sexuality – the swiveling hips, his deep-cut shirts exhibiting his bare chest and jewelry and his form-fitting jumpsuits matched that smooth-as-silk voice. I watched the females in the audiences in the various videos. They were alternately screaming or crying very hard if he even glanced their way with that curled lip and bedroom eyes. Mere mortal males could not even hope to come close to possessing the mystique and magic that Elvis exuded. Yup, Elvis was at the top of his game and then he slowly toppled off that pedestal and slid into an abyss and kept sinking deeper and deeper.

I was working at the diner as usual while on Summer hiatus from college when Elvis died suddenly. Everyone who worked at the restaurant but me was from the South as was most of the clientele. From the day he died until his funeral the talk revolved around Elvis. Dimes were popped into the diner jukebox to create a non-stop marathon of Elvis hits . Our manager made a special exception and allowed a tabletop radio to be placed in the center of the diner so everyone could listen to Elvis’ funeral service. Tears were shed. Tongues tsked-tsked about the fate of this rags-to-riches Southern boy … one of their own. People unfortunately had forgotten the good stories of this down-home country lad and now only spoke of a legacy filled with drugs, erratic behavior and desolation.

Elvis has not only left the building but departed this earth … The “Kang” will live on through his music for eternity. Thank you for making this young girl’s heart go pitter-patter all those decades ago … I enjoyed today’s trip down memory lane.

I did my usual jaunt to Council Point Park this morning all the while enjoying this beautiful crisp, cool weather to the nth degree. As a person who loves the Fall season, these temps are just perfect for me. On the way home as I neared the Mixter Elementary School grounds I saw a huge German Shepherd galloping across the grass. I must confess this is not the first time I have seen this large shepherd at this location. Last week I saw him loping through the schoolyard and it appeared he was headed for me so I made a quick detour down another street. I am not afraid of dogs but he looked like he was headed my way; today I realized he was not running toward me, but instead playing “fetch” with his owner whom I couldn’t see. I had to smile, but my fears were not unfounded … earlier this year I had a terrible scare with another shepherd, equally as large, from whom I hid behind a tree. In the still of the morning, I worry that a dog may attack, even unprovoked, thus I carry pepper spray and a huge whistle and I err on the side of caution when it comes to any animal.

At any rate, I watched the man throw a wiffle ball and his dog went running to fetch it. It was a large ball and the dog had to grab it in the side of his mouth to return it to his owner. Well at least the dog slobber slides through the holes. If you’ve ever played catch with a dog, the ball gets a little slimy after a few tosses. Ahhhh … pets.

It is always fun to watch animals interact with their owners. A pet that is loved and cherished by its pet parent will reward you a thousand times over with love and attention and you will never lack for companionship with your little friend beside you. It goes beyond Fido and Fluffy too – I know because I have a bird, a canary to be exact, and I have owned birds in the past (or perhaps I should say they have owned me). I know they owned my heart, as does Buddy now.

Today I will dedicate this blog post to a much-cherished parakeet named Joey, who died thirty years ago today.

Joey made such an impact on the family that I think about him every year on this anniversary of his death. His passing made us very sad and we decided on that fateful day that another pet would never again cross our threshold. But that is another story for another post.

Back in 1975, my parents were driving out in the country looking for late Summer veggies at roadside stands. While perusing and picking some produce at the long wooden table, out of nowhere, a Pomeranian pup came over and sniffed the bag my mom had in her hand. She stroked his ears and he wagged his silky tail appreciatively. They called to the vendor from inside the car that his dog was near the road as they didn’t want him to get hurt when they started the car since the dog trailed them to the car and didn’t want to leave. He answered back “he’s not my dog” and added “you’re my first customer of the day so I don’t know where it came from and it doesn’t belong to any of my neighbors, so it looks like you found yourself a dog” … a debate between my folks ensued whether to take the dog with them or not and they decided to take him and check the papers for lost dog notices. They put him in the backseat and away they went.

I came home from working at the diner that day to see a Pekinese in the yard as I walked up the sidewalk. I ran in the house to hear the whole story. My mom said we’d look Wednesday in the lost and found ads in the local paper and give it a few weeks, then keep him if no owner claimed him. But she added the caveat that it was doubtful he would end up being our dog as he seemed healthy with a glossy coat, very friendly and well-taken care of. He had no collar or identification. We nicknamed him “Dusty” since he was found on a dusty country road.

He fit right into the family, and he couldn’t decide whom he should cozy up to. He decided on my mom and trailed behind her constantly and never left her side when she was sitting in a chair. My mom did not work but stayed at home and so Dusty was happy to have a constant companion – the feeling was mutual as to my mom. We dreaded looking in the Mellus, our local paper, on Wednesday, but we did, and sure enough there was a plea for a lost Pomeranian. His real name escapes me now, but we called the number and reported where we found Dusty. He had run quite far from where his family was visiting friends. They had put him in a backyard with no fence and he made a run for it. The owners came right away to pick up their pooch, tears of joy and smiles all around to see him again. Dusty went right over to them and it was evident we had been mere substitutes. They offered a reward and we shook our heads “no” and said it was our pleasure to host him and we turned over a leash and some kibble that we had bought at Feed Rite.

Well then we were feeling a little despondent after Dusty’s departure. That night it was my mom who broached the subject that “perhaps we should get another pet” … we had not had any pets since moving to the States and had a rough run with three dogs while still living in Canada, and thus had decided against getting any more pets for awhile.

We decided on a parakeet. We went down to Feed Rite Pet Supply the next evening and picked out a turquoise parakeet whom we named “Joey”. We got a brass cage and all his necessities and brought him home. Immediately, my mom, who had had a parakeet when she was growing up, set to work on teaching Joey to talk. Since my mom spent most of her time in the kitchen, as did Joey, as her constant companion he never lacked for attention. Within a week, she had him sitting as close to the cage bars as he could to watch her every move. Every time she came near the sink, she would visit with him, and he soon knew that some of his favorite “people treats” came from the fridge and thus every time she opened the fridge, he would peep or jibber-jabber or hang upside down in the cage to get her attention. His reward was sharing a piece of fruit with my mom or getting a big piece of lettuce. My mom persisted in saying “Hi Joey” to him at least a hundred times a day but he failed to pick it up. He did look right at her, and sometimes cocked his head as if to say “okay already, I’m letting these words sink in – I’m gettin’ there mom” but he wouldn’t repeat the greeting back. My mom wanted to teach him just a couple of words then start working on longer sentences. In desperation one day she said “Hi Stupid” … and repeated that a few times as she was getting exasperated with him. Then she started greeting him constantly with “Hi Stupid”. One day she was rewarded with “Hi Stupid” back to a visitor at our house! Then it seemed he would not stop saying it. Trying a different tact, my mom went back to saying “Hi Joey” … within a few days, she went over to the cage and was rewarded with “Hi Yoey” … we realized that our little Joey was either Swedish or he couldn’t pronounce the letter “J”.

Joey would say “Hi Stupid” or “Hi Joey” at least fifty times a day and so my mom decided he should graduate to longer sentences. Soon he was telling us “he’s a good boy” or “he’s a bird” … the phrase had been “he’s a GOOD bird but somehow he didn’t remember to put the word “good” in there. We’d laugh and answer him back with “of course you’re a bird – what else could you be?” Joey’s vocabulary and phrases grew. He was finger-tamed within a month, and came out every day on my mom’s finger or shoulder. He was never allowed to fly around the house. We just dropped the cage door down and he walked out and my mom offered him her finger and he’d climb aboard . He was quick to climb on any of our fingers or liked to sit on our shoulders too. He was so loved by his family.

Then in August of 1983, suddenly our perky little boy became listless and unresponsive to his favorite treats or did not want to come out his cage. We were worried sick and got him into the vet as soon as possible on a Friday afternoon, the 12th . The vet, who was an avian specialist, told us it was just a little stomach upset and gave us some medicine to mix with his drinking water and also recommended giving him Pepto Bismol once a day in an eyedropper until was perky and acting like himself again. My mom had to reach in the cage and pick him up and cradle him to give him the Pepto Bismol. He didn’t like the taste and would shake his head back and forth and as a result hard, dried-up pink Pepto Bismol got caked on his mouth. Poor little thing. He did not respond well to the medicine and remained listless. A pall settled over the house and we hovered over him all weekend as if our well wishes and concerns would somehow transmit through to him and make him better. We decided on Sunday night we would return to the vet on Monday when I got home from work.

Sadly, my mom was giving him his Pepto Bismol Monday morning after I left for work and he passed away in her hands. She called me at work and we cried together. She put his little body in a small box and asked a neighbor to come and take the cage and accessories away and put them in the garbage as it was garbage day which she did. We took Joey’s body back to the vet and asked to have an autopsy done on our beautiful little blue boy. It was discovered that he had died of a tumor in his esophagus. I am sniffling as I am typing this, just awash in renewed grief In fact, on this 30th anniversary, I remember the sadness and it feels like it was yesterday. My father, not a very tender or demonstrative person, cried like a baby when he got home from work that night. We all cried together for a life snuffed out too soon – a little bird who brought us pure joy and we then vowed there would be no “replacement bird”, nor would we every do anything to sully his memory.

Rest in peace my little Joey – I must close this post now as tears are coursing down my cheeks and a teardrop has landed on my keyboard and I must wipe it off. But I will not wipe off the tears on my face – I am not ashamed to cry so hard for one little blue budgie named “Joey”. God bless your soul little one.

Back in the day I was a big fan of “The Mickey Mouse Club” – I even had my own pair of Mouseketeer ears I donned while watching the show. In later years I never lost my fondness for Mickey and his main squeeze Minnie and I owned several sweatshirts and tees emblazoned with their images. However, I need to set the record straight that “feeling the love” for mice stops right there.

I’ve already relayed the horror story of my rodent issues in a prior blog so I won’t go there now. It both sickened and saddened me to see a rat infestation in my garden paradise, and, though I may never see another rat in the yard, the experience has tainted me forever.

Thus, with the exception of Mickey and Minnie, I detest rodents. To me, mice are mini versions of rats. Of course, there has always been the occasional field mouse lurking about outside, especially since I fed the birds for decades. I’d see them scurrying to and fro, nibbling on the spilled birdseed, or trying to snatch a stale bread crust which I tossed to the birds. I always worry they’ll follow me into the house, especially when the cooler temps arrive.

This morning at Council Point Park, I was walking along minding my own business when a mouse came running out of the bush and missed my feet by a hair’s breadth. Whoa! This was way too close for comfort! I suspect that a bigger critter was chasing him and he didn’t even see me comin’. He momentarily startled me and I screamed. I was in a somewhat secluded part of the Park with no one near me, but I am sure every walker’s head swiveled around to see what the commotion was about. One or two people crossed my path before I left the Park and asked if I heard a woman’s scream and I was somewhat red faced when I answered “yes, I heard that woman scream … it was me; this five-foot, nine-inch person who had a three-inch mouse cross her path” … then with a wan smile I said “I’m really scared of anything that moves faster than I do” which garnered a few laughs as if I was trying to be a stand-up comedian. The old adage of “he’s more scared of you, then you are of him” is a misnomer.

The rest of the walk was spent studying every part of the path in front of me– I really must shake this terror as I enjoy my morning walk in the Park too much to stop now due to a silly old mouse. I tried to recall that cutesy rhyme our grade school teacher had us recite just to pacify myself and get past the incident. I Googled it when I came online later to read the entire poem. I’ll bet if you reach into the recesses of your brain, you will recall it too.

I think mice
Are rather nice.
Their tails are long,
Their faces small,
They haven’t any
Chins at all.
Their ears are pink,
Their teeth are white.
They run about the house at night
They nibble things they shouldn’t touch,
And no one seems to like them much
But I think mice are nice.

My high school chum and Facebook friend, Carol, lives in Honeoye Falls, a tiny rural village in New York. Her house butts up against a wooded area. She regales us daily with posts telling tales of deer and fox visiting her backyard, beautiful birds sipping and supping at her birdbath and feeder respectively, and gorgeous and unusual butterflies and moths native to that area flitting about her gardens. She usually substantiates her nature posts with pictures. Carol likes to sit on her deck at night and watch the bats. While I enjoy reading about her wildlife encounters and have suggested she compile her posts and write a narrative entitled “Tales From The Edge”, she laughs it off and says she is just a city girl captivated by the great outdoors. Well, I love animals just as much as the next person, but I’d be wary of deer or fox in my backyard and no way would I feel comfortable in the dark with bats flying around. I’ve told her so. When I had my rodent issue a few years ago, Carol offered to box up and send some “animal friendly” traps so I could capture the rats and set them free. Trap the rats? Pick up the trap and carry it somewhere with that little varmint inside and let it loose? Not a chance! I politely declined.

Living so close to the woods, Carol often mentions being plagued by voles. Not wishing to appear out of the loop as to the woodland dwellers, I Googled “vole”, took a peek and then asked her “what the heck is a vole versus a mouse?” “Just a chubby version of a regular mouse” she replied and added that they live in the shed where she keeps her riding mower and they won’t hurt you. I shuddered when I read that as I recalled the debacle with my garage mouse.

Years ago I found a pile of sawdust and gnaw marks on a fiberboard storage cupboard in my garage. I sprinkled some turquoise D-con mouse pellets, then prayed they’d eat it and go somewhere else to die. Well, no … one tiny mouse body was laying there the next time I went out. Sigh. I went to ACO Hardware for more mouse repellent and spied a glue mousetrap which touted the product was the most-humane way to dispose of unwanted vermin (as if there are “wanted vermin”?). I put the trap out in the garage and a few days later went out to go somewhere in the car. I backed the car out and when I went to close the garage door, there he was – this pitiful little mouse looking at me, its hind end submerged in the glue and its little body squirming and writhing to get out of the sticky trap. With eyes filled with tears at what I’d done, I ran over to my neighbor Marge’s house and asked her to pick it up and take it away. Being the solid friend that she is, she hustled over, picked up the contraption with a plastic bag, sealed the bag to quickly suffocate the mouse, and threw it into her yard waste bag. The next time she opened the yard waste bag our little friend scampered out of the bag and leapt onto the grass and ran away. Whew! That was the first and last time to use the glue method – certainly not humane, even if he did manage to get free.

As to rodents and creepy crawlies I try to put on my “big-girl pants” and deal with it … but I surely shaved another year off my life with this morning “MOUSESCAPADE”.

p.s. I went over the 200-mile mark today … now to shoot for 300 miles and supersede the car mileage.

T.M.I., or “too much information”, happens alot these days. It is a phenomenon, mostly found on social media, where people just chatter on and on about themselves just a wee bit too much. Once that chatter is out there on the internet, there is no recalling or deleting all that STUFF… but sometimes an oral recitation of what’s happening can be just as bad.

As I was walking this morning I went down a street where clearly an exodus to the great outdoors was in progress. This was the same family and scenario I encountered and recounted in a blog post earlier this Summer, and as before, they were about to embark on a camping trip. You might recall my conversation with the chatty happy camper who told me how excited he was to be making S’mores. Well this morning, this very amicable young man decided to chat me up again as his parents packed the final fixings for the camping trip.

In the span of less than five minutes he told me all his family’s business and described how the house would be left alone for the next two weeks. He started out by telling me: “The dog and cat are going to stay at the vet’s office because Snoopy, that’s our dog, got lost in the woods the last time we went camping.” Well that info about the pets was innocuous enough until he added: “Dad says he hopes the neighbors remember to watch out for our house and water Mom’s flowers until we come home because half the time they never water their own.” If a thought bubble appeared over my head it would say “good thing I’m not a burglar kid because you just gave me the details to when your house will be unoccupied” or “good thing I don’t want to snitch on you to the neighbors about what you think of them”… but he didn’t stop there. Then, parroting one of the parent’s comments no doubt, this came out next: “Dad’s car needed a new transmission last week and he said it cost a ton of money but we’re still going on this trip because we need to get away for awhile. Grandma will loan us money if we get into trouble and need help; she’s good for it.” I winced at the last statement. Was this child never admonished like most kids that whatever is said in the house stays in the house? Do the parents know about this little motor mouth spewing out all the family news and views? OMG. Way too much information kiddo.

Ahem … not that I was a little angel in this regard. I slipped up only once. My parents were thirty when I was born – that was considered old back then. I had no siblings, was never spoiled and never lacked for attention, but my parents were strict with me and I was basically an obedient child. I knew my place in the family. My parents never had to raise their respective voices when rearing their only child, but one time they really took issue with me.

My best friend in the world from our toddling days until we moved to the United States from Canada in 1966 was Linda Crosby. The Crosbys were our next-door neighbors and Linda was the eldest of three children. She was fun and a great companion about 75% of the time. When things did not go her way she was a brat and she’d throw a temper tantrum. If she acted up at our house, my mother banished her to her house immediately; my mom would not tolerate a whiny, screaming child. We played companionably but Linda Crosby always wanted to be “in charge”. She was famous for grabbing my toys and misappropriating them for her own – my large-sized tricycle was one of her favorite items to snatch from me, even when I was sitting on it. “Gimme your bike now Linda or I’ll beat you up” she’d say and I’d hop off and say “here”. My folks would witness this behavior and were quite miffed over it. When they had seen the recurring scenario happen one time too many, at dinner that night my father suggested he would give me a dime for every time I beat up Linda Crosby. “Really Daddy?” I was excited. (Of course a dime went a heck of alot further in the early 60s.)

It was a Saturday a few days later, when the nefarious Linda Crosby “played dirty” and demanded I get off my large trike and take her small one. I got off and went right over and pushed her chest hard. She was caught off guard and toppled backward onto the ground and immediately started wailing. I pinned each of her arms down with my knees and then sat on her, all triumphant. Both sets of parents came running outside when they heard the ruckus. I stood there and at the top of my lungs shouted “Daddy, I beat up Linda Crosby – can I have my dime now?” How’s that for a precocious child? I got a licking when I got inside for repeating family business outside the house. I couldn’t sit down comfortably for quite a few hours and the smack- down story haunted me for years. It was subsequently dragged out and retold countless times to family friends and relatives through the years. Oops!! P.S. – I never collected my dime either.

I’ve had an earworm the last few days … “Blame It on the Bossa Nova” keeps playing in my head. As you may have heard, Eydie Gormé passed away over the weekend. Each time the national news reported on her passing, they played a sound bite of her trademark song. I had a similar earworm after we lost Jean Stapleton from repeatedly hearing Edith Bunker’s shrill “Archie!!” plus the audio clip “Those Were the Days”, her duet with Carroll O’Connor on their iconic T.V. show “All in the Family”.

Well, we didn’t get that projected storm last night, and an early morning quick look out the window (my new low-tech method for determining the weather) told me the pavement was dry but rain threatened. I decided a trip to the backyard instead of Council Point Park was in order. Weeds are the bane of my existence and I had zero enthusiasm for dealing with them. I opened the door to go outside feeling like the Dunkin’ Donuts baker in the “Time to make the donuts” commercial as I trod out dejectedly to wrestle with the choke vine, tame the purple nightshade and tackle the thistles.

I started out simple – first, the front yard which was a breeze and took me maybe fifteen minutes. Last year I invested in very real-looking silk flowers for all my pots and baskets, so gone are the countless hours tending to all my annuals at the front and side of the house. Now we just deal with those sneaky little sidewalk crack weeds.

The backyard was not so easy. Maintaining the roses and perennials got placed on the back burner, especially since I’ve not been out back multi-tasking – deadheading and weeding at the same time I was watering; no need to water because we’ve had so much rain.

“Blame it on the Bossa Nova” kept running non-stop in my head as I was working on spading out some of the more-stubborn thistles. It was then I decided today’s post should be entitled “Sadie” because I could be singing “Blame it on the Basset Hound” … it is Sadie’s fault I am dealing with thistles, nearly ten years after her departure.

The couple who lived in the house next door had a big basset hound named Sadie. For me, any previous encounters with this breed had been a cardboard cutout of a basset hound at the shoe store while purchasing a pair of Hush Puppies. Sure that hound dog looked endearing with its sorrowful eyes and long floppy ears. But did you know that basset hounds have a mean streak and are aggressive? The new neighbors moved into the house in the Spring. On weekends when the couple was home, they put Sadie out in the yard and if I was out there gardening, she’d bark and growl at me the entire time. In frustration, I’d yell “shut up” and they would ask me why I was yelling at their dog. This went on every weekend during the gardening season. They also spent time in the yard, but evidently the barking didn’t annoy them. I really lost my temper one day and said I would call the police if the barking did not cease. They took Sadie in the house … ah, blessed peace and quiet. I wondered why I didn’t use that tact before.

But the peace and quiet was short-lived, because the next day, Monday, at precisely 4:00 a.m., Sadie was put out in the yard and she began barking. Her voice carried in the still of the night directly to my open bedroom window. The couple each had factory jobs and told me when they moved in that they left the house very early to go out for breakfast together before they went to their respective jobs. I laid awake and listened as Sadie barked constantly for 45 minutes and this became the new routine every morning until they left for work. I bought a pair of earplugs and I also cornered them in the yard that weekend and asked why they would do such a nasty trick and the reply was “because you don’t like our Sadie”. I threatened to bring the police into the fray, but they said “don’t bother – we’re moving soon and you don’t have to bully Sadie anymore” … true to their word, a “For Sale” sign went up and they were soon gone. But not before they left a calling card as a reminder of their neighborliness.

While they lived there, they fed every wild bird imaginable – they had at least a half-dozen or so bird feeders in the yard, all filled with different seeds to attract a variety of birds. I also fed and watered the birds, but they had these *&^% thistle seeds. The light-as-a-feather thistle seeds invariably would end up in my yard and I was constantly digging out the prickly thistle weeds. Before they left, I am sure they hung over the fence and dumped or flung several pounds of thistle seeds into my yard. I had a large crop of thistles still thriving by the first frost, but the following Summer, I could not keep up with those pesky thistle weeds– they were growing everywhere, right to the middle of the yard. Thistle weeds grow fast and they are sturdy and have rhizome roots. This means the roots grow horizontally or in clusters which you can never get the entire root out – you can chop it up in pieces and the little clumps will start growing new thistles on their own. It was horrible. I got a weeding device (coincidentally called a “Weed Hound”) which had an auger operated by pushing a handle to pop out the offending weed. It was guaranteed to grab and pull out any weed completely but even the “Weed Hound” didn’t work. Brush-clearing products did not do the trick either. Each thistle had to be dug out individually then you had to tunnel under the dirt to extract the entire root. It has taken ten years and I still need to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the thistles sometimes – today was such a day. To add insult to injury, I got 3/4s finished with the job and it started to rain.

My homeostatic condition at the end of each thistle-pulling foray is snarly, and I am prone to growling at anyone in my path, though my bark is definitely worse than my bite!