Community Garden - Day 10

Out of the scorched earth,

 green beans make their way through the soil,

photo courtesy of Sis and her Iphone. 

The hot dry days drove Mayor to purchase a rain barrel. 

He fills it with water at the river which we pour onto our tiny fledgling plants.

We scan the skies (and the weather channel) daily for rain.

In spite of the inhospitable conditions,

the plants continue to grow.

This is the tiny pepper from 8 days ago. 

It has made remarkable progress in its quest to become a grown up pepper.



Weeds, however, seem to flourish in even the worst of conditions.

While our neighbor gardeners use newspapers, straw, and cardboard to deter weeds,

I suspect Mayor and I will use hoes and hard work to keep the garden weed-free.

OK by me. 

 



Memorial Day

Wtih a heart full of gratitude I respectfully placed the American flag on my grandfather's grave Saturday morning. I have learned he lay on a battlefield somewhere in France with a wounded knee for a night, waiting for someone to come to his rescue during World War I.  Thank you Papaw.

Hundreds of thousands of men and women have put themselves in harm's way

so that we might enjoy freedom.

Thank you.  



The Joy of Saturday Morning

Feed stores resplendent with the colors and flavors of early summer

Fetching water from the river for the garden,

Watching a lone heron wend its way up the middle of the river,

With the throaty chug of a river boat in the background.

Ordering a footer with everything and a large Diet Coke

at the local dairy bar at 8:30 in the morning

and no one tells you that only breakfast is being served.



Trip to Tokyo

This evening, as I sat with my parents on the patio outside their home, surrounded by towering trees, chirping birds, and sultry warm air, my dad took my mom and me on a remarkable trip to post World War II Japan.

Dad joined the army after high school graduation, and soon found himself on a train, bound for the west coast, where he made his way to Tokyo.  Quite a journey for a young man who had never been far from the family's Scherer's Hollow in North Moreland, Ohio.

Thanks to the typing skills he gained in high school, he was assigned to the staff at the former Japanese War Ministry building, where the war crimes trials took place.  He served as a buck sergeant, having three stripes on his sleeve.  The trials took place on the first floor.  He and the men with whom he served, lived on the second floor, partitioned off into quarters. 

When General McArthur entered the building, as he often did surrounded by an entourage, the young men were encouraged to stop whatever they were doing, and stand quietly as he passed.  They did, without question.

As a newcomer to town, Dad and several of his friends made their way into Tokyo on the train, and, in returning, forgot their stop.  They traveled north some 15 miles out of Tokyo, where they were escorted at gunpoint to the command post there.  There, the mix-up was ironed out, and Dad and his friends returned to the train station where they slept on the wooden benches for the night.  They returned to Tokyo the next morning to their jobs.  No questions were asked.

While there were separate clubs for enlisted men and officers, there were no differences, when the officers needed an extra man for an impromptu basketball game.  Perhaps, when the heat of battle had passed, the differences between the ranks was diminished.

The men were issued chip books, which contained coupons, used in place of money. A coupon worth $.10 bought dad a beer at the enlisted men's club.  I think he used a few.

Tokyo had been scheduled to host the Olympic games the year before war broke out.  The facilities had been built, but there were no games.  In post World War II Japan, the various branches of the service played football, one against the other, in the Olympic stadium.  Dad said it was interesting to go to a football game, just like in America, but in Japan. 

Dad was, interestingly, something of an entrepreneur during his time in Japan.  When he was on assignment with his driver, he would ask that they stop at the PX.  There he would buy cigarettes, of all things.  Somewhat incredulously, I asked him if he smoked.  He chuckled and said, "No, of course not."  But the Japanese did.  They would come to his room, and ask, in garbled English, if he had cigarettes.  So, I asked him quite innocently if he bought cigarettes to sell to the Japanese at a higher price.  "Well, of course."  he answered.

They paid with Japanese yen, which he amassed.  Upon leaving Japan, he bought a diamond, hiding it in his razor bag at the time he was scheduled to return to the states.  That diamond sits in a ring given to me by Dad and Mom.  This evening, though I may have been told the story as a younger girl, the story took on a whole new significance.

I was sad to leave Japan.   I am honored to have taken the journey with my Dad. 

Community Garden - Day Two

The promise of things to come. . .

 Hurry up and and grow, please!

The Good Earth

The Community Garden adventure began today.  Day One - Bare earth, but not for long.  

Mayor and Sis taking a break from their labors.

 As the sun set, gardeners were still working their plots.

Mayor, Sis and I concentrated on the soil this evening.  One of our neighbors let us borrow his hoss cat tiller so that we could further refine our soil. Sis' dad liked to call finely worked soil "Bug Dust". I think that's about the consistency of what we have to work with now.

We managed to plant three rows of onions,  some lettuce and cabbage plants, and two rows of potatoes in the most fastidiously spaced intervals I could ever imagine.  We have rows and rows left to plant. 

We met some of our garden neighbors this evening.  Everyone was busy as bees, laying out their rows, setting plants into place, and sowing seeds.  It was pleasant to be part of the group.

As the sun set, all grew quiet, cool, and calm.  A fitting end to a good evening's work.  

The Adventure Begins

My brother, Mayor, and I are going to garden together in the Community Garden!  I can't wait.  I've been prancing up and down all day because the garden was finally plowed today.  All that remains to be done is the laying out of the plots.  We are almost there. I sent him a text this afternoon to let him know the garden had been plowed.
After work this evening, I made my way to the river where the garden lies to check on the garden's progress, hoping to be able to plant a little this evening before the forecasted rain.  Guess who was right behind me?  That's right, Mayor!  He was just as anxious as I was to begin the garden adventure. The plots were not quite ready, so we have to wait another day or so.
We contented ourselves with going to the feed store to purchase a few more seeds, plants and tomato stakes.  We sauntered among the plants.  We chose some late romaine lettuce.  We bought Flat Dutch cabbage plants, the only cabbage our grandfather ever planted.  I believe we both inherited the gardening gene from him.  We bought more tomato plants, Roma, though God only knows why.  We will be swimming in tomatoes come August.  We're trying a tiny watermelon variety and a muskmelon.  And, we rounded out our selections with some green beans and onion sets.  All this on top of the tomatoes, peppers, and potatoes we have on hand already.
Why all this excitement over planting a garden?  Why. . . because it means Mayor and I will be gardening together.  We've made the decision to take the two plots and treat them as one garden.  We will be planting, hoeing, weeding, laughing, giving each other grief, and working side by side to do what we love.  I can't wait.
You see, there are only two people in this whole wide world who have known me longer than my brother.  Those two people are my parents. My brother, Mayor, was born a mere one year and 11 days after me.  We were inseparable as babies for almost four years, until our little brother happened along.  Our mom, in one of the family's famous Olan Mill's photos, dressed us in matching sailor suits.  We could have passed for twins.  

Mayor was the funny, happy-go-lucky personality with a twinkle in his eye.  I was more serious.  He was the charmer. I was the shy one.  We made a good team.  
Things haven't changed all that much, actually, over the years.  Neither has my love and genuine fondness for my brother, Mayor.  He is a kind, smart, creative, good-to-his-very-soul person.  He knows what I am thinking without my ever having to say a word.  He knows me, for better and worse, and seems to like me in spite of it.  He is my friend.
This summer, we are going to produce huge volumes of vegetables together. I am so looking forward to the time we will spend in the garden.   
I will keep you informed of our garden progress during the summer, complete with photos of the many beautiful gardens.  The folks who toil in the Community Garden share a passion for gardening.  It shows.  Their gardens are works of art and are productive, as well.
Let the fun begin! Stay tuned!

Clover

After a lunch indoors at work, I felt the need to escape for 15 minutes of real air and blue skies.  Off toward the river I headed, to take a walk on the levee.  The levee was built after a devastating flood ransacked the town in 1937. 

The levee is a graceful sort of man-made hill, meandering along the south end of the town for a couple of miles.  It rises above the town it protects quietly and without pretense.  It boasts a wide walking path. 

The light breeze and sunshine felt good on my face.  As I walked, I could not help but notice the clover which blanketed the unmowed levee.

The clover, blooming with abandon on the levee, was not your ordinary lawn-variety, runofthemill clover.  No sirree . . . the blooms were enormous, perched above leaves as big as my fist.

In an instant, I was transported back to my childhood neighborhood, where I would sit with my best friend, Janie, weaving clover blooms into chains on sultry summer afternoons. We wore the chains around our necks, around our wrists, and on our heads as we played bride, decked out in old curtain panels.

Isn't it funny how a sight, a taste, or a smell can evoke such strong memories?

So I began to pluck the choicest blooms, tying one to the next, until I had created a quite passable clover chain. Happily, I strode back toward the office, clover treasure in hand. It adorned the edge of my computer monitor for the rest of the day.  It brought a smile to my face each time I looked at it, and by day's end, my tiny cubicle was fragrant with the sweet pungent smell.

Later in the evening after work, I returned to the levee to take some photos of the clover in the glorious late day sun.  I was reluctant to leave the feeling of this day behind.

 

In retrospect, I think I am quite lucky to have escaped the sting of the bees whose space I was clearly invading.

TOSRV

Each Mother's Day weekend, for the past 51 years,

 thousands of bicyclists climb aboard their bicycles in Columbus Ohio.

They pedal south 105 miles to my little town, which sits at the mouth of the Scioto River. 

The event is aptly called the Tour of the Scioto River Valley.

They get up the following morning and make the return trip to Columbus, well most of them.

My brother and I traveled north out of town to photograph the cyclists as they made their way south.

It was a beautiful day for a bike ride. 

Here the cyclists are close to finishing the first 105 miles of their trip.

Almost there!

A welcoming party is held in the downtown park.

Hundreds of people and their bicycles gather there to celebrate, listen to music,

have a bit to eat and a cold drink.

My sister in law has coordinated this end of the tour for years.

There are mature cyclists.

There are patient girlfriends, apparently waiting for someone named Joseph.

There are tired cyclists.

There are cyclists re-connecting with their electronica.

There are tiny little partygoers, probably not a cyclist yet.

There are lemonade stands and gracious cyclists who stopped for a refreshing drink.

There are space-age bicycles,

And rather ordinary bicycles.  These three were playing ring around the rosey.

There were shirts that would rival the finest jockey silks.

There were young bicyclists.

At the end of the day,

there were those who decided to return to Columbus the easy way.

And, there were those who camped in tents, slept on gym floors,

stayed with local families and filled all local hotels to the rafters.

What a very nice way to spend a May weekend.

See you next year!

Monday Morning Musings

I had to have a peek at the sodden North Forty before leaving for work this morning.  The trees, with their limbs bowed down under the weight of yesterday's gully washer sang "Who'll Stop the Rain" while the weeds and plants in the muddy, puddled garden serenaded me with "The Halleljuiah Chorus".  Once the garden dries, I will be "Taking Care of Business" with a hoe in my hand.

"Thank you, sweetheart" said my anonymous friend as he handed me my hot cup of coffee this morning.  While I don't know his name, nor him mine, we nevertheless, exchange such pleasantries almost every morning.  Sweetheart is a term we bandy about so easily, but when you think about the word itself, it really is a lovely word.  Sweet Heart. What a nice way to begin the day.

I seldom drive with the sunroof cover open.  Since Better Half had last driven my Suburban, the cover was open.  I enjoyed the view of the raindrops on the glass.  I saw a blue heron arc its way across the grey gloomy sky, its long legs hanging out behind it.  A different point of view this Monday morning - refreshing.

And, the glorious fog that nestled amid the Kentucky hills, whispy fingers of white reaching down into the verdant forest canopy.  Where was a camera when I needed it?

Happy Monday!

A Good Place, No, A Great Place

Love, is, without a doubt, the most powerful emotion on the face of this earth.  So, you say, you can do better than that.  But, I can't do better than that.  Love, in the multitude of ways in which it manifests itself, is - the all, the it, and the everything. 



As I stood hugging my mother this evening before saying good-bye, I told her how much I loved her.  Her shoulders shook beneath mine, and our tears flowed.  She is my light.  She, on a bad day, is better than I will ever be on my best day.  I love you, Mom.  You are the best, and I mean, the very best. 

   

 

Better Half surprised me this weekend.  He took on a project I know he could not have enjoyed.  But, he did, he survived it, and I will hear about it for the next millenium or so.  Just when I think I have him finally figured out, he changes it up.  Thanks, Better Half.   Your support means a great deal.

And, then, there are my boys, and my girls, all almost three of them.   As these boys take on the mantle of manhood and create families of their own, I observe with pleasaure.  Actually, I stand in amazement.  The boys are warm, loving, caring, funny, happy people.  The women who have hitched their hearts to theirs are equally incredible.   Thanks, boys and girls, for being the "apples of my eye".   I hope each of you knows how very much I love you.

This Mother's Day I am surrounded by love.  I am humbled.  I am grateful.  I  am happy.  I will never take the abundance of this life for granted. 

It is a thrill to reside in such a good place, no, such a great place. 

I am hopeful each of you has had a Happy Mother's Day!

A Hop, Skip, and a Jump

This morning, while I was at work, a large contingent of young children and their teachers gathered on the lawn outside the windows of my office.  The group was apparently waiting for their ride back to school, and to pass the time, the enterprising teachers engaged the children in relay races.

My friends and I were drawn to the spectacle of the children racing.  Their spindly arms and legs flew in every direction.  They took turns hopping, jumping, skipping, running, and crocodile crawling across the lawn.  The children, while waiting their turn to race, jumped up and down, wildly cheering on their teammates. You would have thought a gold medal was at stake. 

Their enthusiasm was infectious.  At some point, I remarked to one of my office mates that I could not remember the last time I had hopped or skipped.  She kind of laughed, and suggested that I refrain from doing so until I was out of range of the office.  The logical side of me agreed, while the cantankerous side of me wanted to go hopping right across the open work space.  Logic won out.

All day, I thought about those carefree children, hopping, skipping and jumping as though their little lives depended on it.  And, all day, I thought about the joy their antics brought to them and to those of us who watched them. 

And, I also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would find myself hopping, skipping and jumping at some point during this day.

After work, I headed to the local downtown park, where I tend to two gardens.  I weeded and planted flowers in anticipation of the scores of bicyclists who will gather there this weekend.  No hopping and skipping there.

Then, I delivered some homegrown strawberries to my parents and visited for a spell.  No hopping and skipping there.

When I arrived home, there were tools to put away, a bite of dinner to grab, and a little settling in to be accomplished. 

Rattling around in the back of my mind, however, was the whole skipping and hopping thing.  So, I quietly crept out the back door to the North Forty.  I began skipping, and skipped all the way to the end of the North Forty.  Upon arriving, I was a little breathless, but jubilant.

I turned around and began hopping back toward the house.  15 hops on one leg, 15 hops on the other leg, and then 15 jumps with both feet together.  I could hear the "Rocky" theme song thundering in my head by this time. 

Watching 8 year olds, weighing all of next to nothing, hop across a field is one thing. Doing so when you are a several decades past 8, and weighing a good deal more than nothing, is quite another. 

Halfway back to the house, I began doubting my sanity, but plunged onward, wheezing and snorting.  When I finally reached the end of the North Forty, I was seriously breathing, though I am a regular exerciser.  I felt great.  I felt, if not 8, then certainly 28.  I was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

As I entered the house, Better Half eyed me suspiciously from his perch, but said nothing.  I regained my calm demeanor fairly quickly and went quietly about my evening chores, all the while still feeling 8 on the inside.

If only for a few minutes, 8 was a quite good place to be. If someone had handed me a bouquet of balloons at that minute, I, no doubt, would have floated right up into the sky just like in the movie "Up". 

Barn Dance

As I have been partaking of my guilty pleasure, watching "Dancing with the Stars",

 I've been experimenting with some photos of old barns I've taken over the past couple of months.

Barns that dot the landscape in southern Ohio are not fancy affairs. 

They are rusted. 

They are weathered and well-worn, like an old pair of jeans.

They lean a little bit.

They bear indignity with grace.

They are regal.

I think the barns are a lot like us, and that's not such a bad thing.