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Sunday, August 28, 2011

And the green grass grows all around

You know that saying, "about as exciting as watching grass grow..." or something like that? I realize this post might fit that bill. However, I decided it was important to note, in writing, how much I am actually grateful that my grass does grow, and how happy I am to mow it. Weird, eh?

When I lived in Georgia, I had a dinky push mower that was a pain in the rear to start, and nine times out of ten, I would pay some teenager to come and start it...and mow the lawn while he was at it. I couldn't be bothered, and it was so darn hot, your face would melt right off if you went out there. Really.

When I moved to Indiana, I found that the grass actually stayed green and pretty, and it wasn't so bad, once in a while, to cut it. In fact, I began cutting it regularly, which, I thought, was a novel idea. It also didn't really matter what I thought of it, because as the sole adult living in my house, I didn't have much of a choice.

Now, back to where I started, in Michigan, I wouldn't give up my lawn-mowing duty for anything. Well, maybe for a brownie sundae, but let's pretend that's not an option. In fact, I consider it a lawn-mowing privilege these days. It's an hour of peace and serenity, just me and the yard. But there's something more. And I had to get to the bottom of it. So a few days ago, perched atop my Yardman, I began thinking...as I tend to do. I don't take a Walkman, or I guess now it's an IPod...whatever those things are with the little buds that stick in your ear and make you oblivious to the world around you. I've seen the look that teenagers have when they are attached to those things, and it's spooky to me. I actually like to hear the rumble of the engine, the whirring of the blade. I watch the ground ahead of me, scanning for sticks, rocks, fallen walnuts. I watch along the creek as I drive past, looking for minnows or maybe a trout. I see when the snapping turtle is eyeing me, making sure we understand our place as cohabitants on this property. I note the progress of growth in the butterfly garden I've planted. I think of how I'll expand it next year. I begin reciting "Birches," my favorite Frost poem, while I circle the white, peeling trunk. I hum "Feelin' Groovy," and I feel every bump and curve of the land.

I do this weekly, whether it needs it or not. I come by it honestly; my grandpa was a habitual mower. There'd be weeks with no rain, and the grass would be all-but-dead, and George would say, at approximately the same time each week, "Well...guess I better mow." And he would. And it was my cue to go outside, too, because, well, I liked to be out there when he mowed. My childhood best friend and I would play while he would mow and then he'd bring his mower up to the corner of the driveway to remove all the clumped grass from the blade. He wore these dark brown cotton gloves, pretty much whenever he was outside, I remember. Sometimes he'd complain because the blade needed sharpening, but I don't even think he minded that much. He sharpened it on some sort of tool in the garage, telling me to "stay back" and I'd watch in awe as sparks flew around and his face skewered up with intensity. And always those dark brown gloves. One time I visited, as an adult, years after he gave up on mowing his own lawn, and the gloves were still on the shelves in the garage. I tried them on my hands; they were soft and worn and still smelled like grass.

Mowing, I suppose, has always been a comforting thing. It has always meant people were there, people who loved me and took care of me. At my childhood house, I enjoyed days when the mower came out, because it meant my dad was home. The few times I mowed the lawn in Georgia, I was always under the watchful eye of Sarge, my beloved dog and companion, who, at the time, was all I had..and therefore, was my home.

Sometimes now, my children will play on the deck while I mow, or ride their bicycles in the driveway. The dogs will lay on their bellies in the shade, sleepily supervising me as I pass by. I wonder if they, the kids and the dogs, like the mowing. They don't say.

In addition to my bond with the lawnmower, I'm taking up birdwatching. I didn't mean to, but they are kind of fascinating and beautiful. I especially like the morning doves that took residence in the crab tree. As a kid, my grandpa used to call to them from the porch swing in a sing-song voice, and Grandma would peg orange-halves to the maple tree for the Orioles.
But I suppose that's another post for another day.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Fearless

How is it that I am so much more tame now than I used to be? Last night, I was laying in bed, recalling that once upon a time, I went to Atlanta with a friend, and this friend took me to another friend's apartment, and at this apartment, people were smoking marijuana from a big thing that I learned, later, was called a bong. Or was it a hookah? I enjoy that word...but anyway, I had no idea. Really, I did not. And no, I didn't use it. But when we went to a bar, later, for a costume party, I did have a drink. Hey, I was 21. It was legal. Smart? No. I was in Atlanta and I knew 3 people, sort of. But...

I had no fear.

Then, on the way home, this friend stopped at a gas station. Pumped gas. And then got back into the car...only to shout expletives a few moments later when realizing that some...illegal substance that was apparently being carried in a pocket...fell out at the gas station. I didn't know we had been carrying an illegal substance in my Camry. I didn't even consider that, had we been pulled over by police, we could have gone to jail. The point is, even when I found out about it, I didn't panic.

I had no fear.

The thought struck me that I packed up my entire life into a U-Haul, said a casual goodbye to everyone I had ever known, and trucked my way to Georgia, to live in an apartment with my high school boyfriend. I navigated the streets of Savannah, GA over the next few weeks in my black Toyota Corolla, still not really mastering the art of driving a manual transmission; certainly not around those squares. At dusk, I hightailed-it back to my little apartment in not-the-best area of town, set the security alarm, and hunkered down for the night. I listened to sounds from other apartments. Yelling, cursing, banging. I watched suspicious-looking people walk past my sliding glass door, and I compulsively checked to make sure it was latched.

Because maybe I had a little fear.

To pass the time of loneliness, while my husband was overseas, I put myself through real estate school and began showing these amazing historic Savannah homes. Except they weren't all amazing...some were scary. Especially the one occupied by the schizophrenic man who pinned me to the wall and said "It's just me n' you, now, Blondie."

I had fear, but I had mace.

Recently, my sister was about to embark on a music tour with a group of folks she met on Facebook. She'd probably tell this story differently, but it's my blog and I'll tell it like I know it. She was meeting them in Chicago. I drove her to the venue; a sketchy place with walls covered in black trash bags, just down from Gino's East on Racine. Her attitude was nonchalant; she was ready to go take a stab at this touring thing. Only, having been her sister for 23 years, I sensed a little fear under all that armor. Either way, I knew I wouldn't convince her to nix the idea. At one-something in the morning, however, I got a call:
"I don't have anywhere to stay tonight. I'm stuck here, in Chicago, and they didn't arrange for me to stay with them," which translated, in a language only I could understand,to "these people turned out to be a little freakish, I can't do this tour, please, for the love of God, come get me."

For some reason I'd had a hunch this might happen, so my Nikes were at-the-ready and I was out the door and back to the Dan Ryan in no time. I wasn't pleased. Not at all. But, I recall that kind of life, I do.

Nowadays, I'm a walking ulcer. I'm addicted to Fox News, coffee, and worry.

Then again, my grandpa was a hand-wringer too, and he lived to be 98.

Monday, August 22, 2011

County Fair

In my case, the annual 4-H "youth" fair has always been a source of anxiety and excitement for me. I wasn't a farm-kid, growing up. My grandparents on my mother's side were farmers in their young years, but none of that really carried over when they married and had children. On my father's side, my grandparents had a farm with cattle. While I enjoyed the occasional opportunity to visit the cows out in the field and feed them ears of corn, and certainly loved the adventure of dodging cow patties along the way, I never entered any of them in the fair.
Growing up in a rural farm community only meant that about 70% of the school population was composed of farm-kids. I don't know what the other 30% did; maybe they were the "gamers" of our time. I never got in to that, either. Looking back, I don't know what the heck I did with my time. Let's continue.
The farm-kids spent full weeks at the fair, hanging out in barns with their livestock, riding all the rides a hundred times, eating fair food and forming, whether they knew it or not, this ultra-cool secret society that someone like me, a non-farm-kid, would never understand. I recall meandering through the barns with my parents (lame, because none of them had to walk with their parents, but mine still believed someone would steal me), and casually encountering farm-kids in each barn. I always felt envious of them, and their freedom to interact until late-night, wander the fair grounds in happy little packs, make ill-fated attempts at summer romances and be patted on the back by the teachers in school, a few weeks later, for their ribbons and achievements.
I never went away to camp either. I'm sensing a trend. This is why there are therapists.
I spent the past week at the same 4-H fair, except now, of course, I'm (supposedly) all grown-up and (supposedly) looking at life from a different perspective. I was hosting my own booth for lia sophia, my jewelry company. When representing my company, I feel it's necessary to look my best, whatever that means, and present myself as a professional. So, I made all attempts to achieve just that, and stood proudly behind my booth all week. I did, however, still feel that little twitch of anxiety. I knew, for certain, that in a small town like this, I would surely run in to people from high school. Farm-kids. And on top of that, other kids, now (supposedly) all grown-up too, and looking at life from a different perspective.
Anxiety. And maybe a little curiosity.
Right away, they started filing through the commercial building. Every hour or so, I'd see another familiar face. At one point, a boy from high school walked in. This boy, in particular, is one that I drooled over, back then. I thought he was the cutest, funniest guy. It was common practice for seniors to bring their wallet-size pictures to school and pass them out to friends. If you were a close friend, maybe the back of the picture would have a personalized message, too. Anyway, I happened to be standing in a random group of people when this boy was handing out his pictures one day. He handed me one. There was no personalized message, but I ain't complainin.' I hung that picture on my bedroom mirror, convinced that there was a divine reason he handed me that picture. Of course, it wasn't just because I had been standing there. Surely he intended for me to have it.
Boy, I ramble.
So he walked in, pushing a darling little baby girl in a stroller, and his wife and older daughter were close behind. I immediately felt a pit of anxiety in my stomach. Now would be the time to remind you, readers, that I am not suggesting that I have any desire or attraction to someone outside my marriage. I'm simply recalling the oddness of the past working in the present. It is not because I've thought of this boy at all in the past 10 years, or because I harbor any lingering feelings, but at that moment, I remembered, keenly, what it felt like to be 15 years old, uncool, and awkward. Turns out, while those feelings dissipate over the years, they never actually go away. Right away, I was astonished (as I was when I saw many old schoolmates) that he looked so normal. I guess, back then, I thought all of the "cool kids" were cool because they were somehow better than me. More attractive, popular, charismatic.
And then life happens. And things go the way they go. And almost 12 years later, we're all sort of on the same page.
So I stood up straight, grinned my toothiest grin, and mustered up all the confidence a nearly-thirty-year-old mama can muster. I did my best to shush all those old feelings. I applauded myself, internally, of course, for wearing heels, because Clinton Kelly says they lengthen the leg and make you appear thinner. I stood, nonchalantly glanced in the direction of his family, and....never made eye contact. He didn't pay a lick of attention. Hmph...doesn't he remember, he gave me his senior picture!?!
What does it matter, anyway. I'm glad his family looked so happy and I'm proud of mine as well. Why do I care if he recognized me?
It's just that inner-kid. The non-farm-kid, relatively awkward, out-of-place girl making her way to the surface. The girl I've worked for years to improve, suddenly shouting "still here!"
Will she ever just go away?
Do I really want her to?

Just then, the guy in the booth next to me says, "Hey, do you know that guy with the two little girls over there? He keeps looking over at you, like he knows you or something."

Ha.

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