WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

After multiple rainstorms yesterday, there was no need to water, so when I went to bed I figured walking this morning was a shoe-in. I awoke to my alarm, set to its usual 5:00 a.m., and wearing my headphones, while curled up in bed, I listened to the first news of the day. The 5:08 a.m. weather report was already touting this afternoon’s heat index and of course the meteorologist mentioned the current stats too: 77 degrees, hazy with 90% humidity. No thank you – I’ll take a rain check on that walk, if you’ll pardon the pun. So, alas, despite my good intentions, I decided to remove the headphones, punch up my pillow, then snuggle down and get in a couple more hours of beauty sleep. Ahhhh, what a luxury. I felt like a princess. But after all it is Summer and as Nat King Cole croons in “Those Lazy-Crazy-Hazy Days of Summer” why not take his good advice and have a lazy day? It is already hazy, so why not ease into your morning with some sloth-like activity, like getting in some ZZZZZZZZZZZZs? Later in the day I was thinking about ol’ Nat extolling the virtues of Summer, so I clicked over to YouTube to hear the song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AoLogdbVS3U) (of course it has been playing in my head every since). As to the crazy aspect of the song’s title, I recall a neighbor several decades ago who annually celebrated Christmas in July. At the tail end of June, he decorated his house and yard with the identical ornaments and lights that he used during the real holiday season. How amusing it was to look across the street on a scorching Summer day and see Santa and his eight reindeer up on the rooftop, seemingly endless strings of lights, garlands galore, and even a full-sized decorated Christmas tree peeking through the front room sheers. Crazy Joe, as the neighbors fondly referred to him, then hosted a party every Independence Day and guests’ cars would line up and down the entire block and nearby cross-streets. Friends would arrive wearing shorts and t-shirts or tank tops and carrying Christmas presents, adult beverages and something to pass. Joe and his wife Delores, dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Claus respectively, would greet each guest with a big bear hug, then pose with each one in the front yard next to a life-sized snowman which sat atop a pile of fake snow. They’d hoot and holler ‘til the wee hours of the morn and there were plenty of firecrackers as well. The day after the annual “Christmas in July” gig, the decorations were torn down and stowed away until Thanksgiving. Different maybe, but it seemed a good time was had by all. Words to govern your life by:

“Happiness doesn’t depend on any external conditions, it is governed by our mental attitude.” – Dale Carnegie

…and grumbling … and, maybe whining too. Well, down girl!!!! Bright and early I donned my Wellies, instead of my walking shoes, to trek out to hydrate the gardens before they got too parched in these 90 degree + temps. I’ve got a bone to pick with the various weather people who were rather ambiguous on a rain event today … well maybe, maybe not. Plus, they are already forecasting Friday to be a severe weather day. Hope they’ve got that wrong too. I nearly wilted in the wicked heat and humidity and skeeters were whizzing by; one landed and got me right through my long-sleeved light gauze shirt. The nerve!! I always thought that the “Dog Days of Summer” occurred in August. Last week I learned an interesting factoid while perusing the “Old Farmer’s Almanac” site. Did you know that “Dog Days” actually begin July 3rd and last 40 days, or through August 11th?? This time period coincides with the sunrise rising of the Dog Star, Sirius. Well, I always thought “Dog Days” were just a string of hot, hot, hot days … but forty days? Well, doggone it, … cooler days are on the way and that’s something to wag your tail about. It can’t be that far off. After all, the back-to-school supplies are already on the shelves. The young pups will soon start ticking off how many more vacation days they have ‘til the school bells ring, while this old dawg is just countin’ the days ‘til August 11th.

Today was an A+ day. It was not just a positive day but an A positive day!!

This morning I went to an American Red Cross Blood Drive at Christ the Good Shepherd Church. The church sponsors three blood drives annually and I try to make each one. I have always enjoyed good health and so I am happy to participate and help those who need blood … my little one pint donation today can help save three lives. A trip to the blood bank is like a “mini physical” and to ensure you are fit to give each time, it is imperative that you eat and drink properly so you are not disqualified and miss a donation opportunity. I loosely follow the Mediterranean Diet, and I no longer eat any fast food, fried food, sweets, salty snacks, nor anything else with salt. Today, my blood pressure was its usual low 110/70. My height and weight of 5’ 9” and 135 pounds, respectively, is perfect for my frame, and at age 57, I gotta tell you – I feel terrific. I started walking in late 2011 as I was too sedentary, working from home and not getting as much exercise as when I worked on site. Since heart disease runs in my mom’s side of the family, to keep my ticker strong, I added a walking regimen to my occasional exercise bike riding. I so enjoy walking!! The abundance of rain through June allowed me to walk nearly every morning rather than watering the shrubs and flowers. It looks like we have another stormy and unsettled week in the forecast, and if so, this will bode well for more walking. I have now walked 135 miles so far in 2013; I even squeezed in two miles this morning back-and-forth to the blood drive. I always gave blood in my early 20s, then with several back-to-back international trips, especially the cruise with various Middle East ports of call, the Red Cross prohibited me from donating blood for many years. But I’ve been back to donating regularly over three years now and it is a good feeling to help out my fellow man. Side effects? None at all for me – I do admit to being a little waterlogged right now (I drank over a gallon of water yesterday and another half-gallon overnight and early this morning). Glug, glug, glug … can you say “sloshing” around? P.S. – Nothing like a blog post that is all about me. (Smile)

What a perfect Summer day we had today; they just don’t get any better than this. Do you remember when you were a kid and returned to school in the Fall and your first assignment was to write a paper entitled “What I Did On My Summer Vacation” ??? Whether you and your family spent time at the sandy shore, on a scenic tour, camping or maybe a car trip to see Grandma and Grandpa, you got to write about it … maybe even read it aloud to your classmates. But admit it – the best part of Summer were the simple pleasures. The stuff that Summer is made of – maybe not worth committing the memories to a piece of paper and turning in to the teacher, but good times anyway. What Summer memories do you have? If I had to list some of my best Summer moments growing up I’d have to say:

SPLASHING with my best friend in a three-ring pool that took my mom a half-hour to blow up, then waiting for the sun to warm the pool water before stepping in and testing the temperature with my big toe.

SQUEALS of delight from running through the sprinkler or soaker hose.

SAMPLING raspberries that grew wild on a huge bush in my best friend’s yard. We’d sit on the back porch and reach over and grab a handful – no worries about pesticide, disease or bugs – we just popped them into our mouths like M&Ms.

SCOOPS of vanilla ice cream in a tall glass and a big straw and watching fizzy drinks like Red Pop or Vernors melting and creating a frothy treat, half of which ended up around the corners of my mouth.

SLURPEES and frozen Cokes, so cold I swore I had brain freeze because the sweet frozen crystals jammed up in my straw and I’d inhale ‘til I’d nearly burst.

SADDLING up for horseback riding at Boots and Saddles Stables after swimming and grilling hotdogs and hamburgers on the Hibachi at Holiday Beach in Amherstburg.

SIZZLING on a hot Summer day while I rode my bike or played outside. I’d be having so much fun, I never wanted to go inside, even when my mom hollered my name to come in for lunch or dinner.

SPENDING allowance at the sidewalk sales or the art fairs every weekend.

SWIGGING sun tea right from the container.

All of these events and treats were tumbling around in my head this morning while I was walking. Two slice-o-life instances got me thinking and reminiscing about simpler times and simple pleasures. I walked later than usual today and it was nearly 10:00 a.m. when I finally left. No problem since it wasn’t hot, but more there were more people to people-watch.

First, I heard the unmistakable sound of the ice cream man toodling down the street, with the sweet strains of “Turkey in the Straw” sounding his arrival. If anything is synonymous with Summer it is the frozen treats, whether sipped through a straw, scooped up or on a stick. If you want to see kids come out of the woodwork, just let them hear the music signaling the ice cream wagon is nearby. It is a Pavlovian response, even if the identical ice cream treats are in the kitchen freezer. This ice cream vendor was no slouch; he was headed next to a baseball field where Little League practice had finished and both teams’ players were flopped down on the ground or queuing up at the water fountain. Well, most of the parents lined up along the wooden bleachers had the same Pavlovian response as their kids when they heard the ice cream truck, only they started immediately digging for treat money. The moms reached over for their purses and the dads shifted to one buttocks to retrieve their wallet from a back pocket. Ah…the Good Humor Man. Well that takes me back, as I recall chomping on a Drumstick, mmmmmm … the chocolaty-peanuty taste was always my favorite, but sometimes I’d buck the trend and get an orange push-up Creamsicle. Treats on a stick were tricky and sticky. You had to unwrap and eat them in record time, because once a Fudgsicle starts melting, it becomes a brown, runny mess in less than five minutes and soon fudge “dots” would be freckling your already-brown-as-a-berry skin. Likewise for Popsicles. I wonder if they still make the side-by-side Popsicles with two sticks? It was an art to separate a double Popsicle to share it with your best friend, without losing half of it as it landed onto your toes. What parts of the Popsicle you salvaged, usually ended up running down your chin.

My walk took me past a corner house with a huge backyard in-ground pool. As I passed the yard with its five-foot high stockade fence, I saw four pairs of eyes staring at me over the top of the fence, à la Wilson on the TV show “Home Improvement”. The kids must’ve been standing on a picnic table and I waved “hi” and for my cordiality I received four, multi-colored tongues sticking out at me. I told them it was not cool to stick your Technicolored tongue out, even if you did it just because you just finished a Popsicle and you wanted to show off your cool-looking tongue. One of the kids asked me how I knew they had Popsicles? I told them I was a kid once too and had Turbo Rocket Pops and it did not take a rocket scientist to figure it out.

Next, I saw a woman filling up a low, metal wading pool with a garden hose while two toddlers stood by with restless anticipation; it seemed she could not fill it quickly enough as they kept dancing around and asking “can we go in now Mom?” … if I shut my eyes, I pictured Linda Crosby and I wearing our sunbonnets and sitting in my three-ring, yellow vinyl kiddie pool. I kept walking and on the return trip I decided to take a peek and see how the little girls were enjoying their pool. The pool languished there, looking inviting with its cool, clear water and instead, the kids were spraying each other with the garden hose and giggling in delight. I had to smile too. Kids!!

This morning’s destination was Meijer to get some produce since Buddy, a/k/a Broccoli Boy, was nearly out of one of his favorite treats, so I dutifully made my three-mile trek by foot to get him some more. I told Buddy the other day that he and the Prez have something in common – their favorite food is broccoli. Yesterday, I watched a video clip online wherein a cub reporter queried what the President’s favorite food was and he described his affinity for broccoli. The video went on to illustrate President Obama’s endorsement of broccoli was in sharp contrast to former President H.W. Bush who got an attitude when the White House and Air Force One chef tried to serve him broccoli and he protesting saying: “I’m President of the United States, and I’m not going to eat any more broccoli!” Can’t you just imagine the elder Bush, hands on hips and stomping his feet while having this little tirade?

On the first leg of my mission, I was perusing the produce at Meijer when a young couple wheeled their shopping cart near mine as they likewise picked their produce. While they lingered near the cut-up fruit and veggie bowls, their little boy, who was sitting in the cart seat, was happily “sailing” his toy boat along the deep blue sea … er, shopping cart handle. I waved and said “Ahoy Sailor – what is your boat’s name and where is it headed?” and he just giggled and kept moving the plastic vessel along the blue handle. His parents, having heard the interplay, came over to deposit their produce in the cart and told me they were headed up to Bay City for the Tall Ships Extravaganza on the Saginaw River, and they, and their son, Josh, were excited about the trip. I regaled them with my own visits to the tall ship Christian Radich in 1976, first when it was moored on the Detroit River at Hart Plaza, and then I saw it again the following week on Lake Ontario near the Toronto Exhibition. Both ports of call were visits scheduled during the Tall Ships Parade for America’s Bicentennial. In Detroit, co-workers and I boarded the Christian Radich and got a first-class tour, both below deck after descending a very narrow, rickety ladder to see the sailors’ cubby-hole sleeping quarters and the galley, followed by an above-deck, up-close look at the riggings. It was very hot and rather cramped inside the ship but quite fascinating to see how these big rigs, which harken back to the tail end of the 19th century, travelled and survived on the high seas. Though I was, and still am a landlubber, both tours were alot of fun and very festive and presented some good photo ops. I didn’t have a camera handy in Detroit, but my friend Leslie and I were vacationing in Toronto and had our picture snapped next to some of the young Norwegian mates. We were both done with shopping so I wished the family safe travels and suggested Josh stand watch for pirates while he was aboard the ship. I left for home, travelling at 5.21386 knots per hour with very smooth sailing and all the while humming The Beach Boys’ hit “Sloop John B”.

What is that brilliant yellow orb up yonder? Could it be the sun? Well, we’ve weathered three plus weeks of wicked storms, torrential downpours and horrible humidity, and today – finally we got a well-deserved respite. How refreshing it was to step outside to the cool instead of clammy air. It made me feel invigorated instead of dragged down. I was so revitalized that in two hours’ time I got in a walk, took the car for a much-needed spin and re-energized my roses and perennials with some Miracle Gro. At least the fertilizer won’t get scorched by the sun or washed off by the rain for a few days, so they will reap the benefit. I’m relieved to find no black spot issues on my roses despite all that rain, but the humidity has caused some powdery mildew on one of the lilac trees. Hopefully all this dry heat will help the tree without resorting to chemicals. The same thing happened in 2010 and it recovered without treatment. I was ecstatic to see my Daisies have all emerged and really spread out since last year. My Coneflowers and Black-eyed Susans’ petals are just starting to unfurl. I miss my three Butterfly Bushes which suddenly bit the dust this past Spring. The bushes grew like weeds and were so hardy and welcomed a variety of beautiful butterflies as they alighted on the long and delicate blooms and savored the nectar. Perhaps the butterflies will continue to visit the Coneflowers since my butterfly books suggest they are attracted to pink and purple blooms.

I enjoyed my trek so much this morning but other duties called, so a longer walk will be on tomorrow’s agenda. Weather woes have left many gardeners’ annuals very waterlogged and a little bedraggled looking, but the perennials do not look any worse for the wear. I passed some very tall Tiger Lilies that were toppling over and they fairly roared when I walked past the garden, all ablaze in orange, and which ran the entire length of a corner lot. The mushrooms in Ford Park that I mentioned before have tripled in diameter and I swear one was the size of a dinner plate. So now you know the origin of the description to have “mushroomed”. I am surprised that the birds are not pecking at such a humungous fungus, which was rather striking looking with the dew drops poised perfectly on its flawless cap. I saw several birds splashing and frolicking in an early morning bath thanks to huge, deep puddles in the street. I really miss my birdbaths – I had two large, one medium and a small birdbath which attracted every bird imaginable and I topped it off several times a day. I stopped offering water to the birds when the rodent infestation began and it breaks my heart in the hot weather to think of my birdbaths just reposing in my garage. At least all the rain has allowed crevices, nooks and crannies to provide natural receptacles for the birds to drink and bathe. The budding chalk artists are now rejoicing since they finally can take their talents to the sidewalks again without worrying about the rain washing their handiwork away.

I for one am grateful that we have left this volatile weather behind for awhile. I held my breath each day when the rumbling began and torrential downpours quickly followed. Each day this week was predicted to be worse than the last, and two times I momentarily lost my power. At work, our office was one of many that lost juice following Tuesday’s storms and then a subsequent transformer problem thwarted any efforts to quickly restore the power. There had been brownout conditions all day yesterday, then it went kaput in late afternoon. This is problematic at our complex where access to the parking garage, building and the individual suites can only be done via swipe pass. After a power outage, the passes become virtually useless and the suites cannot be electronically locked and must remain open with buzzers and alarms incessantly shrieking until the power is fully restored. This syndrome happened during the big grid outage on August 14, 2003. We were in the suite on that wicked hot day and suddenly the power was gone. Of course, the first thing to worry and wonder about was terrorism since our building was right next to the Detroit River. We had radios but no electricity to turn them on and after this occasion I always ensured I had a battery-operated radio in my desk drawer. We left the suite post haste and luckily only had to go down three flights of stairs to reach the street level. However, no one knew what was going on, and naturally, as panic set in, people streamed out of the building, not in an orderly fashion as fire drills or emergency preparedness events had suggested to exit. A little pandemonium ensued, but everyone was out in a fairly short amount of time. Luckily it was the end of the business day so the crowd quickly dispersed once they got to the street. As soon as the car radio was turned on, the truth was revealed about the massive power outage and not an act of terrorism or something else just as tragic – what a sense of relief that was! I hope to never have to go through an ordeal like that again in my lifetime.

Do kids still say P.U. to signify something stinky these days?  I was wondering about that as I was walking to Wyandotte on this near-tropical feeling morn, when suddenly … P.U., the unmistakable PUngent aroma of skunk assailed my nostrils.  Someone in the neighborhood either ran over skunk road kill, their pet got “skunked” or a black furry varmint with white stripes got startled and was running rampant on Emmons Boulevard.  The whopping 95% humidity only made the little stinker’s M.O. all the more odiferous.  I double-backed and headed in the opposite direction lest that wafting smell permeate my clothes and then I, too, would smell like I’d been “skunked”.  Hopefully, for their neighbor’s sake, the offending car (or perhaps family pet) got a tomato juice bath pronto.

The moniker of “Little Stinker” brings a smile to my lips.  My former neighbor, Jim, who was like a father to me, hailed from Kentucky and he, like all other Southerners I know, never lost the twang, nor all those cute down-home expressions.  If ever I told Jim a story about myself that astounded him or made him laugh, he would call me a “Little Stinker” … it always made me grin, as it does while I write this post and think of him. 

As to Southern idioms, I worked at a diner on weekends, holidays and all Summer while attending college.  Everyone at Carter’s was a Southerner, except me, and I started picking up alot of the Southern jargon and even a slight twang by the time I headed back to college at Summer’s end.  Even now, when I look up into a darkening sky, I still cannot help it – I find myself drawling “well, it’s comin’ up a storm”.  Most of Carter’s clientele also were from various Southern states and came in on a daily, or even twice-daily basis and inevitably the conversation turned to “back home” or Southern cooking.  Long before Paula Deen and her Southern dishes made her a household name, Ann and Georgia, were always in the back kitchen fixin’ up some tasty vittles for lunch as they were bored with the diner fare.  They’d whip up a batch of fresh hushpuppies and drop them in the fry basket in the hot grease, and soon the whole restaurant would smell of them and customers were envious.  They were my all-time favorite.  I also often got to sample okra, pinto beans, black-eyed peas, grits, collard greens, fried green tomatoes and an occasional hearty chunk of cornbread.  There was always a tall glass of sweet tea to wash it all down with.  I loved immersing myself in the total Southern experience.  Well shucks, I’m guessin’ I’m jest a hillbilly gal at heart.

What oppressive weather this is – it just takes your breath away when you step outside of the air-conditioned house. I set out anyway, determined to reach my next goal of 200 miles this year. I may just melt into a pool before this gets accomplished – Whew! Enroute to Wyandotte, I went around a corner and came upon a scene right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Twin boys, who were the spittin’ image of one another, were standing barefoot, bare-chested and in identical long and saggy, baggy shorts with a large turquoise Tupperware bowl near their feet. The bowl, which was laying on its side like a beached whale, was about a quarter-full of cherries, and at least an equal portion had spilled onto the sidewalk and rolled down the driveway, no doubt to the delight of any passing critters. There was a ball of twine and a yardstick laying nearby. The scenario piqued my interest and so I stopped to scope it out. The boys, who were wearing identical, cherry-stained faces (and feet as well), had twine running horizontally across the sidewalk and fastened down with two bricks which served as “markers”. The gears clicked in my head: these two were having a cherry spitting contest! A quick glance did not tell me who was winning, but there were cherry pits everywhere and being stepped on as well – thus, the stained feet. Amused, I watched the technique of one twin and then the other to see which boy had the greatest aptitude for spitting the pits. One boy gobbled up a cherry, and as soon as his tongue sorted out that pit from the sweet, juicy pulp, with great finesse he aimed and fired with major velocity. The other twin inhaled and held a very deep breath and then whoosh … the pit flew out at the speed of sound and he nearly keeled over after that effort. Well up at the Traverse City Cherry Festival this is a big deal where they determine the winner for a “spitacular” feat – maybe here in Lincoln Park not so much. It was fun to watch them though. I decided to move on and get home as it looked like a winner was not imminent, and at the very least would not be declared until the bowl was empty. Ho hum … when you’re a kid, life sure is a bowl of cherries, isn’t it?

On the heels of the Independence Day holiday, this morning I noticed alot of flags a’flyin, and the red-white-and-blue themed decorations were still adding a patriotic flair to Lincoln Park and Wyandotte homes. It was a muggy morning as I did a three-mile stroll ruminating on the past holiday weekend and the Dominion Day celebration a week ago today. Last Monday I heard “O Canada”, that country’s national anthem, and it sent shivers down my spine. It still does, though I’ve lived in America more years than I lived in Canada, my homeland. We emigrated from Canada to the States on July 8, 1966. My father, a tool-and-die maker by trade, applied for a transfer from the Ford Motor Company in Oakville, Ontario where we lived, to the Woodhaven Stamping Plant, so essentially Ford “brought us over” or sponsored us in 1966. My mom didn’t want to move to the U.S. and protested, though it fell on deaf ears. She had family and friends she was leaving behind whereas my father fell short in both those categories. He promised her we’d stay here for a decade then return to Canada. The promise was never mentioned once we moved here; in fact the subject was never brought up again. Coincidentally, my father didn’t like his job at Ford, despite transferring from an identical position in Canada, and when he was rotated to the afternoon shift, he quit the position a few months later. The day we moved here, forty-seven years ago today, was not without incident. We had our paperwork in order, but there was a problem at the border and we were delayed for six hours. Despite that hang-up, we still arrived at the house a day before our furniture.

Once we were settled in, my mom pined relentlessly for her homeland. At first, we only went back to visit twice a year; in later years when my mom and I were alone, we travelled to Toronto as many as six times per year. My mom never lost her Canadian accent, nor did she give up her country’s idioms and continued stubbornly to call a woolen cap a “toque”, a sofa was a “chesterfield” and a napkin was a “serviette”. Whenever we visited my grandmother, she sent us back to Michigan laden with Habitant French pea soup, Red Rose sweet pickle mix, butter tarts, Smarties and Aero and Jersey Milk chocolate bars. The first Christmas we were here my mom watched the Eaton’s Santa Claus Parade on a local TV station and was moved to tears, and it made her all the more homesick. The following year was the Detroit riots. My mom’s friends and family were concerned for our welfare and the riots made her all the more despondent and wishing to return to Canada. We never had racial issues when we lived over there and so it was quite a shock for us when we first arrived here. After my grandmother and aunt passed away, we no longer returned to Toronto. My mom kept in touch with long-time friends by phone and correspondence and caught up with “back home” activity via vicarious visits only. We did not renew our passports since there was no reason to return to Canada. For many years, my mom reiterated her only request for after she passed away, that her ashes be scattered in her homeland. I found someone willing to take on this responsibility last year and am forever indebted to her. My mom’s ashes are now scattered in the Amherstburg countryside near the water, so unlike my father’s empty promise, I kept my pledge to her.

As to me, I really never looked back – it is what it is. There is no one nor anything to return to now. I am still a Canadian citizen but having lived here my entire adult life, it seems like I’ve always belonged here; yes, indeed – I am one of you. The word “alien” seems so dramatic to me. I certainly don’t feel like one of those aliens whose UFO crash-landed in Roswell New Mexico sixty-six years ago today, even though we share the same USA immigration date. (Smile.) Although I carry an alien card which identifies me as a Canadian citizen, I look like an American, speak like an American and heck, I’m just like you, … and you … and you. Our home has always been done in Early American décor, and yup, I know all the words to “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy”, so there! Every July 8th, the anniversary of our landing in America, my mom would always tell friends “today is the luckiest day of your life because we moved here “x” years ago today” and that proclamation was always sure to get a smile. I used my mom’s line today on Robb and got a hearty chuckle. I confessed it was borrowed and not original. Yup, I know Uncle Sam wants me and I wonder at times why I still waver? The civics exam? I’ll go on wondering I guess until I take that big step and become an American citizen.

We learn early in life that everyone has responsibilities and the person with a c’est la vie attitude was either born with a silver spoon in his/her mouth or just doesn’t give a whit about what other people think. Well, I’m not here to chastise anyone in particular, but I just want to kibitz a bit about Mother Nature, Noah and some of God’s creatures. I think it is important to note that Mother Nature is messing up badly. She’s shirking her sun-time responsibilities of late. Instead of giving us warm, sunny days here in Michigan, she is substituting Florida’s tropical heat, humidity and daily rain or storm, just minus the hurricanes, for our climes. Just sayin’.

I hit the pavement early this morning as a warm-up to another backyard adventure. I thought a quick two and a quarter mile trip to Wyandotte would suffice for exercise before I came home and tried to tame the beast, er weeds, and neaten up my perennials and rosebushes. Well, no one was out that early – sure, they were sitting having breakfast in the air-conditioned house. My Wyandotte trek takes me past a tiny branch of the Ecorse Creek, and as I got closer I saw a fish fly, or two or more. Soon I lost count. I was wearing cream-colored pants and a light-colored shirt making me a virtual fish fly magnet. Within a few minutes a few wayward fish flies were clinging to my shirt. I flicked them off and they, or their buddies, boomeranged back and soon were hanging on for dear life to the length of my leg. Ewwwwww. Perhaps they wanted to go back to Lincoln Park with me. Unlike creepy-crawlies, I’m cool with fish flies, but I’d like to admonish Noah for thinking he should perpetuate these odd-looking insects who are born and die within a twenty-four hour period. I’m shaking my head at Noah’s lack of common sense as regards these insects. Notwithstanding the fish flies, I kept heading toward the river and collected a few more before turning around for the return trip.

When I got home, I headed straight to the backyard. The combination of heat, humidity and constant rain for two weeks straight made my weeds grow like crazy. I figured weed picking would be a cinch since the dirt and mulch was so saturated, and I guessed correctly. I got most of the weeds in record time and then I needed to hone in on the dreaded choke vine. Since my last entanglement with the choke vine, I found it now had a stranglehold on my Cone flowers and had wound its merry way once again through my Nelly Moser clematis. Now, this is no small chore separating the Clematis tendrils from the choke vine tendril, both who were in a dead heat to reach the top of the trellis, clinging to one another and wrapped around each of the ornate, wrought-iron curlicues. I would liken this garden chore to straightening out the mini-Christmas lights, which somehow always get tangled on their own since you pulled them off the gutter last year with freezing cold fingers and jammed them into their box.

The mosquitoes were flitting all over the yard, a result of the heavy quarter inch of rain last night and the ninety-three percent humidity this morning. A contingent of mosquitoes bombarded my ears with their incessant buzzing and I kept slapping and swatting alternately to no avail. I query why God made mosquitoes and also why He chose to give the female mosquito the bad rap, since male mosquitoes don’t bite. Noah, hear me out on this … I think you should have been more selective as to invitees to the ark; perhaps you could have looked the other way and left these pests behind.

My roses have been blooming profusely but most of the petals were spent from this wicked weather. I deadheaded and pruned my roses until my wrists ached and I was convinced I must have carpal tunnel syndrome. Please someone remind me why gardening was once my passion? As I crumpled down the yard waste bag, my eye caught the weather-worn slate placard that proclaims “one is nearer God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth” and then I chastised myself for railing at Mother Nature, et al. (If you will scroll to the end of this post you will find and enjoy this verse in its entirety.)

Okay, perhaps the morning was not so bad after all and I came away with a feeling of peace and bliss (and alot of sweat). I finished up as quickly as I could so I could get inside where it was cool. My reward for completing my self-imposed “honey do” list was two very large melon “smiles”.

ONE IS NEARER GOD’S HEART IN A GARDEN THAN ANYWHERE ELSE ON EARTH.
God’s Garden
THE Lord God planted a garden
In the first white days of the world,
And He set there an angel warden
In a garment of light enfurled.
So near to the peace of Heaven,
That the hawk might nest with the wren,
For there in the cool of the even
God walked with the first of men.
And I dream that these garden-closes
With their shade and their sun-flecked sod
And their lilies and bowers of roses,
Were laid by the hand of God.
The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,–
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.
For He broke it for us in a garden
Under the olive-trees
Where the angel of strength was the warden
And the soul of the world found ease.
~~~~Dorothy Frances Gurney