Lawn Care Craziness (Or in Spring, Anything Seems Possible)

I have never cared deeply about having a perfect velvety green lawn. Or rooting out dandelions, creeping charlie, and crabgrass. And yet, lately I’ve been trying to rehabilitate my lawn.

My neighbors care even less than I do, so creeping charlie crept over from one neighbor and dandelions blew in from the other neighbor. Crabgrass sensed an opportunity and launched its own attack. After only one inattentive year, our yard became The Bad Example. Clearly, its sorry state doesn’t bother my neighbors, but it does bother me.

I’ve invested a lot of time creating and cultivating flower gardens, so having a ratty weed-choked lawn seems incongruous.

Creeping charlie is the worst. I can live with it around the perimeter. But I thought it would be nice to have some actual grass in the main part of the lawn. Being organically minded, I didn’t want to nuke the yard with chemicals that would kill the weeds but poison the butterflies, bees, and birds I’m trying attract.

I read up. Several websites suggested covering the offending patch with cardboard and plastic in the fall. The heat and lack of light would kill the weeds and then I could rake them off in the spring. We tried it and all that did was kill the grass. The creeping charlie was alive and well. Sigh.

So then I began digging it up. A s l o o o w w w process. Until The Perfect Husband got involved. Boom. Done. Except for the oh-so-tedious process of knocking the soil off the dead weeds so the city would agree to take them as yard waste.

We reseeded. Lush grass is due to sprout any day. 

Meanwhile, all those dandelions I dug up last year are back and showing me who’s boss.

This focus on lawn care may be a fool’s errand. But hey, it’s spring. Anything’s possible.

Lock Your Car

October 2008

I’m a Police Reserve Officer for the city of Richfield.

Is that why, I want to shout, “No, Don’t Leave Your Wallet There!” to the lady who has her billfold sitting on the ledge in the coffee shop. Anybody could open the door, grab her billfold, and be gone.

Or, is it because I’ve stolen before?

In my teens, I did a number of things that I am not proud of. At one point, taking blank checks from my parent’s checkbook, signing their name, and then retrieving the cancelled checks from the mailbox. Our life was so chaotic that I got away with it for … awhile.

I want to holler to the woman who is walking to the shower at the YMCA, “NO, don’t leave your iPod sitting on your gym bag. Cover it!”

While still a teen, I opened the back of a car, once, and took the person’s groceries. Not because I was hungry but because it was there and because I could.

I often tell Juan Jose’ and Crystel to care for their belongings, that they could be stolen.

Soon after getting her phone, Crystel left it at our table in the restaurant, while we helped ourselves at the buffet. It wasn’t until we were walking to the car that she realized that it was gone. I saw her startled face. She was stricken. I pulled her phone out of my pocket. Told her that as far as a thief was concerned she had just laid $500 on the table and put a sign out that said, Take Me, when she walked away from the table.

Jody, Coach Marty, Beth

When I first put on a Police Reserve jacket ten years ago, it felt very comfortable. After a moment, I realized why. I had stolen a similar jacket from a river bar when I was seventeen. The bar had live music, dancing, and it was sticky hot. People piled their jackets in a corner. I eyed the pile, picked out a dark blue jacket that I thought might fit me and walked out of the bar. I wore that jacket for a couple of years.

Sunday evening, I was helping Scouts with their personal fitness badge. A billfold and phone were laying in a pile amongst papers and pencils on the ground. “Someone is going to stay here, with their stuff, right?” I asked. The Scouts had walked across the street to a park to run a mile. Still, I was nervous. I reached down and put the billfold and phone in my pocket for safekeeping.

This morning I got a text from our neighbor: FYI: someone rifled through my vehicle (on my driveway) last night. It was unlocked. I think only took some cash. I reported to police. They said at least 5 people from Morgan to Logan area reported the same thing.

I’ve sat in many police reserve trainings, and we discuss car break-ins. We provide a Theft from Auto Prevention Program by conducting a risk survey of unoccupied vehicles, in hopes that drivers will think about what they are leaving behind in their unlocked car. We tuck the result of our inspection under windshield wipers.

I text her back: It happened to us as well. Too embarrassed to report. Jody and I are Police Reserve Officers.

I also use my past as an example that people make mistakes and can change.

Why March?

I’m as surprised as anybody that I’ve begun marching in support of causes I care about. I have never been an activist. For years, I was quietly passionate about my politics and causes – emphasis on quietly. I spoke about them among friends, sent letters and checks, but that was it.

Signs at Women’s March – MN

My upbringing discouraged political activism.

I was 12 in 1967 when race rioting began in Detroit and Toledo, my hometown. My father was a fire chief and reported that rioters were throwing rocks and bottles at firefighters. He was angry and I was scared. Although I didn’t agree with the violence, looting and burning, the civil rights movement made me aware that blacks were often treated unfairly, which might prompt them to anger and rioting. Despite that insight, at 12 years old, I was more worried about my father’s safety than anything else.

I was 15 on May 4, 1970, when, after days of Vietnam War protests, four students were killed and nine were wounded by National Guardsmen at Kent State University several hours from my home. As a WWII veteran, my father disagreed with the war protests, and at dinner on the evening of the shootings, he denounced the campus lawlessness. My mother staunchly agreed with him. My college-age brother and younger sister didn’t comment. I was in sympathy with the protesters, but kept silent.

My primary impression of protests and marches was that they could easily turn violent—something I wanted no part of.

So why at 62, did I join 100,000 like-minded people at the Women’s March in St. Paul in January? And 10,000 people for the March for Science -MN on Earth Day?

Because I can’t bear to see 40-50 years of progress—on civil rights (race, gender, religion, and country of origin), women’s rights, and environmental protections—disappear.

This just can’t be my generation’s legacy.

I know full well that marching by itself doesn’t change anything. It’s just gesture, and that gesture has to be followed up with a sustained effort to create change. I’m prepared to do that, too.

I believe that seeing the sheer numbers of marchers puts politicians on notice—we are a force to be reckoned with, and they serve us, not the other way around.

A sea of marchers on at the Women’s March – MN on 1/21/17, including my son who was on crutches

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Earth Day March for Science – St. Paul

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hope that other people who share my views and values will be heartened and moved to take action too.

Marching makes me feel less powerless, more hopeful.

Living Like You Are Dying

When the buds begin to show in springtime, I think of my mother. It was the season she learned that she was dying. I wonder what it would be like to learn that you won’t be present by year’s end, yet there is the promise of life all around you. A promise in the buds on fruit and maple trees, woodpeckers drumming, and robins with pieces of grass or a beakful of mud. Crocus with its purple and white flowers peeking out of the ground on the sunny side of the house and in the air the smell of rain, soil, and grass.

In a way, I do know. I didn’t think that I would live to be twenty-five. I didn’t have any hope for the future. I’m still surprised that I created a loving family. A safe home. And, my children and their friends, teens in their own right, still want to hang with the moms for a game or two of Monopoly.

Though that time of turmoil, chronicled in House of Fire, is long gone, I still live as if I’m going to die.

I make a great effort to live with no regrets. I’m already planning our families next Guatemala vacation in June of 2018. It will be our 5th visit to Juan Jose’ and Crystel’s birth country. I have my sight set on a sailboat river tour of the Rio Dulce, Lake Izabal, and Livingston before spending time anchored alongside an island jungle and beach.

Fortunately, Jody saves for the future. She packs away items from one holiday to the next. If it was up to me I’d just go out and buy the same thing year after year.

It’s helpful to live like you are dying. I’m at every track and cross country meet with the kids that I can attend. Though, I did hold back from going to their Nordic ski events. Somehow, I didn’t think that I’d regret standing in the cold waiting for them to come to the finish line. Maybe, next year.

The lilacs haven’t bloomed yet. But, they will. Their green bud promises us that.

The robins will strengthen their nest with mud. I’ll do the same showing up for my kids.

 

 

Opposing Thumbs

In 1975, as I sat in Miss Bloom’s typing class, I never thought that one day I’d be typing primarily with my thumbs. I’m sure Miss Bloom, ancient even then, couldn’t have imagined a keyboard so tiny that even the end of her thumb would be too large to hit just one key.

I picture myself in her class, feet planted firmly on the floor, my skirt pulled down over my knees, fingers curled over the keys of the IBM Selectric in front of me. Four rows of eight desks neatly lined the room. The only sounds were the soft squish of Miss Bloom’s orthopedic shoes on the linoleum floor as she paced up and down the rows checking our posture, and the hum of the newly purchased typewriters in front of us. (What a marvel those electric typewriters were. How much easier than the 1928 Smith Corona I used at home.)

What were my lonely thumbs doing then? They were relegated to the space bar, waiting for the opportunity to create a void between words. Only my right thumb ever got any business, the left thumb dangled uselessly while all of the other digits pounded away at 65 words per minute.

No wonder that now my thumbs have trouble finding the letters when I answer e-mails or send my daughter a text message from my iPhone. They’re not conditioned for this kind of work. Now they’re front and center, the rulers of the written word while my fingers curl around the back of my handheld device, providing support, but little else.

Occasionally my right index finger can’t stand the pressure and it says to its friends on my left hand “Take over. I’m going in!” as it darts from behind the screen to hunt and peck for the letters, thinking itself faster than my clumsy thumbs.

But even this is unsatisfying, because my right index finger doesn’t know the keyboard any better than my thumbs. The only familiar keys are y, u, h, j, n and m. And what can you spell with only those letters? Eventually, my index finger gives up and returns to its friends behind the screen, letting the thumbs take over because they at least can work together, doubling the speed of my messaging.

Gone are the days of 65-75 words per minute. My thumbs are lucky if they can get in 20. So they’re less creative. A reply that once might have been “I’d love to join you on Saturday evening. A trip to the theatre sounds like fun,” becomes “K” or more likely a thumbs up emoji, but rarely anything longer. It’s just too slow, too cumbersome, too demoralizing to spend so much time pecking for the keys and constantly backspacing to correct mistakes.

I’d like to say my thumbs are happy, that they’re glad for the opportunity to carry the torch after all these years. But I don’t think they are. I think they miss the days of working in tandem with my fingers, resting lightly on the space bar while the fingers searched for just the right sequence of letters. I think they’re lonely out there in front by themselves. Who knows? I could ask them, but they’d probably just reply, “IDK, may b. U D cide.”

 

Guest blogger and WordSister Jill W. Smith is a Twin Cities’ writer. Her work has appeared in the anthologies Here in the Middle: Stories of Love, Loss, and Connection from the Ones Sandwiched in Between; A Cup of Comfort for Parents of Children with Autism; and Siblings: Our First Macrocosms, in the online journal Mothers Always Write, and occasionally on her blog, The Autism Fractal, which she co-authors with her oldest daughter.