Reflections - Garden Date

Baby Cucumber

 

I admit misinterpreting Spence’s words at times.

Walking along West Creek Road—gravel crunching under our feet and a wood thrush singing its flutey ee-oh-lay—he described a new garden project to protect beets, cucumbers, and zucchinis. “You can help. It’ll be a date.” He nudged my shoulder with his fist. “We’ll cover it with deer netting.”

Imagining an eight-foot high fence covered in mesh puzzled me. “How will we get in to harvest?”

“It’s a raised bed.” He didn’t say “duh” but his scrunched forehead did. “Think of your strawberries.” He crouched. “Kneel and lift the cover.”

Oh. Last year we’d lost every beet, cucumber, and zucchini, not to mention many more crops. We fell behind on weeding because of weather, health, and schedule conflicts. Weeds strangled the plants. Raccoons and deer ravaged others. Spence rebuilt his fence daily. Deer trampled it nightly. They only left half of the hundred thirty tomatoes and sixty pepper seedlings he transplanted.

Raised beds would solve the weed problem. Netting would foil the critters. I agreed to help, relishing the idea of working on the same project at the same time. Usually when we work in the garden, he turns compost with the bucket of his small Mahindra tractor while I dig thistles and dodge brown snakes in the asparagus patch.

I didn’t misinterpret his use of the word “date.”

When I joined Spence behind the hoop house Tuesday, May 17, he’d already done the heavy work. Timbers edged the sides of the thirty-five foot long black fabric ground cover. On it rested many tractor bucket loads of filler dirt Spence had been saving in a pile. Roadmaster Dan dug that dirt out of the flooded runoff stream below Flickenger’s horse pasture when a culvert flooded in years past.

The rocky, fallow soil peaked like a miniature, four-and-a-half-foot wide mountain range on the black fabric. Spence handed me a hoe. “Smooth it out like that artist who used dots.”

Clueless as to which artist he meant, I figured a rough smooth would do.

“And toss out rocks that big.” Spence pointed to a rock the size of an eggplant.

I hoed away—content no earthworms attracted brown snakes in the rocky soil yet. The rocks I tossed ranged from eggplant to chicken egg size.

Spence brought me a rake and another load of filler dirt. 

Janet Raking

If I raked in a crisscross pattern, I would have swollen dots. I contented myself with making smooth diagonals. While I worked, a movement caught my eye—brown on brown. A tiny toad hopped along the edge of the dirt and the frame. “Hey, Spence. Guess what our first animal is?”

“A toad. But he’s not first. He’s after slugs. It’s been wet.” Spence handed me the metal measuring tape. “Check the distance between the sides.”

I measured the width of the raised bed in five places. “They vary from fifty-six to fifty-two-inches.”

“It’s fine. We’re not building furniture,” he said. 

The timbers had sat on their four-inch sides making the height of the raised bed six-inches. But the garden sloped. Continuing his not-furniture theme, we flipped the down-slope timbers to their six-inch sides. Spence lugged twelve-foot pieces and set their four-inch sides on top making a height of ten-inches. Not even panting, he placed a shorter board across the width and set his level on top. Crouching, he grinned and pointed to the air bubble in the glass tube inside the tool.

The air bubble rested two-thirds in the middle and one-third in the down-slope section. “Don’t you want it all in the middle so it’s level?”

“No. We’ll even the soil between sides. That will slow rain drainage.”

After tossing the discarded stones into the tractor bucket, he hauled them to a runoff pool while I pulled out the pea fence against the up-slope side of the raised bed. Together we dragged the old fence away for Spence to dismantle and reassemble for his beans. 

Two days later, Spence closed the short ends of the raised bed with cement blocks. His Mahindra rumbling, he dumped bucket load after bucket load of compost on top of the raked filler dirt.

He made that compost. With the blessing of Dave, the new roadmaster, Spence scraped leaves out of drainage ditches along West Creek and Creek Roads. He also transported truck loads of leaves from John, a township supervisor with a landscaping job. Like pouring maple syrup on pancakes, Spence added manure to the leaves. Kathy, another township supervisor, let Spence take as much of the manure she shoveled out of her barn. He shuttled the two-miles to her farm to bring back bucket loads for his leaves. The pile composted. He mixed it with the tractor bucket—what else. A year and a half later, he dumped the mix, ready for me to rake smooth over the filler dirt in the raised bed.

Pointing to the end of the bed farther from the hoop house he said, “You can rake that.” He hit the soil mounded by the hoop house with the hoe. “I dug deeper for this. You'll need the hoe to break it up.”

The job also involved pulling out weeds and roots, separating clumps of leaves that hadn’t composted, and removing more stones. Earthworms burrowed through the compost—a good sign even though snakes would follow. While I raked, Spence rescued the pot bound cucumbers and zucchini seedlings from the hoop house. On that hot, sunny day, the hoop house had become an oven. The red line in the thermometer rose past the 120° F (49° C) mark and off the scale. He set the seedlings in trays in a row with peppers and tomatoes beside the raised bed—a reminder to hustle and finish. Toting plastic watering cans, he sprinkled each of the seedlings he’d nurtured.

Spence Carrying Seedlings and Piled Compost Ready to be Raked

Anxious to finally handle plants, I listened to Spence explain characteristics of his mature seedlings. “Zucchinis like space.” He measured the end of the raised bed with a metallic tape. “Make two-foot squares. Plant one zucchini in the middle.” He set the measuring tape on a timber.  “Cucumbers grow all over.” He waved his hands indicating their randomness. “Made X patterns. Alternate rows of two and three. Sixteen inches apart.”

“Got it.” I strapped on knee pads, pulled on smelly garden gloves, and dug with the trowel. After patting soil around each zucchini or cucumber, I gave it a cup of water mixed with seaweed to combat transplant shock.

Beside the raised bed, Spence tilled the ground for the larger section of the garden so he can get a fence up.

I pulled the seedling trays closer to me.

He’d changed his mind about building a cover over the raised bed. He decided to build a fence with an electric wire on top to protect the whole garden from deer. Imagining leaping deer getting zapped and choosing other green things to eat satisfied my soul.

As I watered my last cucumber, he finished tilling and carried a row cover to the raised bed. “I don’t want them getting sunburned.” Together we pulled the cloth over the transplants and secured it with rocks he hadn’t moved from the garden path yet.

“Do you want to cover the tomatoes and peppers too?” I pointed to the flats of hardened off seedlings left beside the raised bed that would go into the regular garden.

“No. I’ll cover them after dinner.

But after dinner, Spence napped while a thunderstorm hit. The plants didn’t get covered. 

In the morning, he glanced out the sliding screen door and yelled, “Get out of my garden, deer!”

He slipped into his boots and rushed outside.

When he returned, I asked, “Did the deer eat the tomatoes and peppers?” 

“No. It was at the other end of the garden. I wondered about the storm.” Spence leaned down to pick up his buddy cat Rills. “The plants are fine. No damage.”

Spence has a new routine. Until he gets the south garden fence built, he covers his plants at night and gets up in the twilight to shoo deer out of the south field in the morning. While saving room for the beets, too spindly to leave the grow lights in the basement yet, we’re adding zucchini and cucumbers as they mature and harden off. The first baby cucumber has formed, and the first zucchinis have blossoms. Progress.

Our date project will foil weeds, raccoons, and deer—at least for a while. My mouth waters in anticipation of eating homegrown beets, cucumbers, and zucchini. And a garden date with Spence tops dodging brown snakes in the asparagus patch knees down.

Spence and Tiller

 

 Reflections - Buddies

Rills Nuzzling Against Spence

Spence can’t sneak outside. As soon as he steps into his boots at the coat tree by the door, Rills dashes across the great room. Claws out, the cat scrambles up Spence’s jeans and shirt to his shoulders.

With a mix of ouches and chuckles, Spence cradles the cat in his arms. “It’s okay, Rillsie. I’m just going to the hoop house. I’ll be back.”

Rills rubs his head against Spence’s hair and nuzzles against his buddy’s neck. While Spence cuddles Rills, the cat smiles and goes limp.

The cat also employs his climbing technique to check ingredients Spence adds in meal preparation, one reason Rills chose Spence for favorite person. Rills, the runt of the litter, is the hungriest and feistiest of our three tabby brothers. Unlike me, Spence puts up with Rills nipping his fingers. Spence has plenty of other good qualities like taking naps. Rills curls between Spence’s knees. And Rills chooses to attend Spence’s ZOOM meetings in the guest room.

Spence sets his computer on the antique walnut desk in the corner between the single bed by the window and a revolving wooden bookcase. He leans back in an old, not antique, office chair to rest his feet on the bright batik quilt covering the bed.

Rills jumps onto the windowsill to stare at critters, then walks across Spence’s leg bridge to prance, tail up, in front of the computer screen. Meeting participants ooh and aah while Spence proudly says, “That’s Rills,” before placing him on the bed. After several reassuring pets, Rills curls up and naps through the rest of the meeting.

Sometimes Spence closes the door during a ZOOM meeting or phone call so that I can listen to an NPR Politics Podcast while I wash dishes. He totes his computer and papers from the great room to the guest room then commences the elaborate process of inviting the cats. Hand on the door knob he asks, “Are you coming in?” The three cats turn in circles, sit, and stare at Spence’s face. After vacillating in the doorway, they finally vote with their paws by padding inside the room or turning away.

Rills Napping with Spence

On April 22, Spence and I returned from an Earth Day walk collecting litter when Yvonka, his co-volunteer on lead safe issues, called from Cleveland. He hustled to the guest room and closed the door so I could concentrate on writing my response to the twenty-second prompt in the poem-a-day challenge.

My pen scratched images of spring beauties carpeting lawns.

Spence's voice droned in the background.

I stretched, glanced over my shoulder, and gasped.

Rills stood on his hind legs by the guest room door. His front paws reached to either side of the shiny, round, brass door knob. The elongated cat, imitating his chosen person’s actions, pawed the door knob.

Not wanting to disturb the cat’s concentration, I inched down the hall and whispered. “Do you want in with Spence?”

Rills glanced at me then returned his focus to the knob. One paw pulled down. The other pushed up.

The knob wiggled.

Reaching over Rills, I opened the door.

He dropped and sat, staring at the opening. After a while, he walked toward the great room, circled back, then ambled into the guest room.

I closed the door on the buddies. Later, I told Spence about Rills wiggling the door knob.

Spence clasped his hands in front of his chest. “That’s my Rillsie.” Spence picked the cat up and scratched his chin. “I could install handles. That would make it easier for the boy to open the door.”

Handles?

Rills would easily open doors with handles, but we close doors to keep cats in or out—not just for quiet.

Guests wouldn’t appreciate Rills jumping on their bed, walking up their back, and rubbing their heads while they slept.

Even Spence closes the door on Rills. After the cat jumps onto the counter and sticks his nose in Spence’s dinner preparations for the umpteenth time, Spence tosses his buddy into the bathroom and shuts the door. “Time out.”

Rills never whines.

The bathroom door knob wiggles until Spence returns and opens the door. In an apologetic voice Spence says, “You can come out now, Rills.”

Having been standing on his hind paws, the cat drops to all fours and trots out of the bathroom.

Scooping the cat into his arms, Spence hugs Rills. “You're a purring machine, Rillsie.”

The cat snuggles against Spence’s head.

And the saga continues.

Every time Spence steps to the front door, Rills dashes after. The cat reaches up Spence’s jeans and climbs or waits to be hoisted for a hug. Sometimes Rills varies his approach. He crouches on the arm of the hewn log chair by the coat tree for a leap to Spence’s chest. When he spots the poised pouncer, Spence scoops the cat up, saving his chest from the cat’s sharp-claw landing.

Rills lets nothing deter him from the pursuit of his chosen person. I’m guessing that with practice, Rills will even overcome the challenge of round door knobs.

Rills and Spence

 

 Reflections - Poem-a-Day

James Wright Still Life

I’ve done crazy things.

On April 5, when I read about the Write a Poem-a-Day Challenge sponsored by Writer's Digest, I considered attempting one of my craziest yet. I’m only a dabbling poet, but the project intrigued me. If I accepted, I would have to write two poems a day for four days to catch up. Could I write one poem a week, let alone thirty in a month?

When I told Spence, he didn’t stare at his computer and say, “That’s nice, dear.” He didn’t threaten to tell our children. He looked me in the eye and said, “Okay.” Maybe he was used to my whacky ideas or thought I would reconsider after writing the first poem.

Whatever, I filled stacks of scratch paper with potential lines.

Cornering Spence in the great room after he woke from a nap a few days later, I read him my first five poems.

He nodded.

“Well?” I wanted feedback.

“I like the first best. It sounds like a James Wright poem.”

His words pleased me more than winning the Nobel Prize in Literature would have. James Wright wrote my favorite poem—the second hangover poem, about a blue jay jumping up and down on a pine branch outside his window.

Day 1: Write an F-title poem.

    Feathers

The red hawk

Flew too low

Sat too still

Yet his feathers glistened

Too bad the ‘best” came first. No one, except me, would care if I made it through the month. Yet, I took inspiration from the advice Ketanji Brown Jackson gives youth, advice a Black woman once gave Ketanji when she doubted herself.

Persevere. I’m sure she had loftier goals in mind than setting pen to paper to play with words.

I beavered away with my pen ripping through paper as fast as beaver teeth chew into saplings. I didn’t stop until the stack had dammed the side of my desk and the flow of the pen had shaped what looked like a poem. I scooped up the top sheet and found Spence washing his hands. “Do you have time to listen?”

“Sure,” said the saint. But his answers in those early days didn’t feel heavenly. “It’s too repetitive. Try something different. Use deeper images like James Wright.”

Though I didn’t enjoy hearing his comments, he was right. The more pages I’d scribbled, the further I’d strayed from a coherent poem. I only aggravated my knuckles and reduced the topic to bland-as-cardboard drivel. In frustration, I put the poem away. The next morning, I switched to a fresh idea. Less mashed lines worked better. Lesson learned.

And I unlearned what Timons Esaias, a favorite Pennwriter mentor, had huffed and puffed at a poetry workshop. “You are not that important. Leave yourself out of the poem.”

Robert Lee Brewer’s prompts forced me to put myself into some poems.

Day 8: What “they” never tell (told) you.

         History

Because I was a girl

In junior high they told me

How to sew an apron

How to hand wash dishes 

How to boil vegetables.

Not content with girl’s work

I revved my husband’s drill

And pressed the revolving pad

Against his rusty truck.

The drill snatched my hair

And wound it tight.

Because girls were banned from shop

They never told me that.

If I was going to succeed, I needed a routine.

I studied Brewer’s prompt. Though he said to use it as a spark not a limit, the elementary school teacher in me followed his directions. I brainstormed the directive and chatted to Spence when we went for exercise walks. “I need ideas for a scary poem,” I told him one day.

“You could write about bears.” He gazed into the woods. “Maybe . . . She was bare, wearing nothing but hair.” I didn’t use his bear-bare suggestion.

Next in my routine, I selected a workable idea, jotted down lines to include, and slept on them. In the morning, I sat at the bedroom desk and scribbled the poem in my morning journal. Ande pranced over the pages searching for a paper ball—cats can be insistent—while robins, mourning doves, and phoebes outside the window sang their parts in the morning bird chorus. Cheer-up cheerily. Cooooo, cooooo. Phoebeeeee.

Ande on Journal

I revised, rewrote, and revised some more then dashed into the great room to interrupt Spence from reading his computer news.

He gave me his attention and offered quiet “okays.”

Gullible, I figured my routine worked.

Day 12: Two-for Tuesday. Write a counting poem and/or a not counting poem.

Not Counting the Trips

(inspired by James Wright)

In a hollow

High in a birch

Yellow-bellied babies

Scream twee twee twee.

Sapsucker parents fly to and fro, to and fro

Offering insects, sap, and fruit.

The perpetual motion parents might as well be filling a hollow tree

For their squawking babies’ hunger is as large as

The sky above the tiny open beaks.

 

His “okays” continued for a few more days before my illusion broke. Writing a poem a day meant none got polished. All could be improved. And Spence, who spent his entire life trying to make me happy, didn't want to hurt my feelings. He was my beta listener. I needed his feedback—especially on the “mad” poem.

It took a while to choose a topic because I wasn’t feeling angry. Daffodils bloomed. Spring sort of put in an appearance. The cats behaved. I finally chose machines because they made me dependent and then broke down—automobiles, cameras, can openers, computers, needle threaders, pencil sharpeners, printers, telephones, and washers. Annoying. The poem took hours and hours and still didn’t sound right.

Maybe Spence could point out what needed to be fixed.

He listened, said “okay,” and returned to his computer.

No help. “How could I improve it?”

He looked up. “Make it more specific. I didn’t get an image of which machine. It didn’t grab me. I didn’t care.”

He was right. I’d worked to make it apply to any machine and made it blander than oatmeal without toppings. Seething with frustration at myself, I scratched Mad in the middle of a page and let anger at myself rip. Five minutes later I read a second poem to Spence.

Day 17: Write a mad poem.

         When People Say

When people say “Just relax”

Sirens blare through my head

Volcanoes erupt from my toes

Screams shatter my teeth

Don’t tell me how to feel

When I’m seventy-three

He nodded again. “That works. Next time I’ll say, ‘Don’t relax.’”

“It’s just a poem. I had to write something.” I felt guilty. “For heaven's sake, my teeth never shattered. I don’t have volcanoes inside me. It’s just writing.”

He stroked his beard. “Don’t relax, dear. Worry about it.”

“Besides, you telling me to relax helps.” I giggled. “Sometimes.”

The rest of the day, however, he said, “You can sit and don’t relax. It would be fine.”

Spence hasn’t told me to “Just relax” again. With prodding—“Is there a better word I might use?” and “How could I make it better?”—he’s offered feedback again.

Three days later, I needed that feedback for my sanity. I’d read, “Write a six word poem.” The prompt was misleading. Brewer’s “six word'' poem had fifty-eight words. He listed six words and expected challenge-accepters to use at least three in their poems.

Monkeys rearranging those six words for a million years couldn’t produce a coherent thought.

Determined to write a poem in six words, I systematically chose sets of three words—more like a math problem than word exploration—to see if any made sense. I used the least worst before ditching all words on Brewer’s list and writing a poem with six words that wasn’t horrible. I read the poems to Spence. This time I didn’t need his feedback as much as I wanted comfort.

He gave it to me. “You can’t write a good poem if you have to follow rules.”

Day 20: Write a six word poem.

Use at least three of the following six words

or go for extra credit and use all six.

 1. Content 2. Double 3. Guide 4. Meet 5. Pump 6. Suit.

Success

Employee meetings

Pumped by

Double Coffee

             Six Word Poem

Tense Cats

Surveil

The scampering

Chipmunk

I wish I could say I write poems with ease now. I don’t. I open prompts with hopeful expectation, then shut the laptop lid wondering how Brewer expects anyone to write about that. I still find myself chasing the poem and badgering it into shape rather than letting it gracefully form itself. Yet, I’ve assembled verses. I’ve preserved. I’ve finished.

JW Prompt: Write a celebrating-the-end limerick.

Celebrating

This April a challenge I’ve run

Creating new poems all in fun

They gave me some flack

I wrestled them back

It’s May and I'm finally done.

River Willows