Of Sunflowers and Birds

I planted sunflowers a while back, put them where they'd have plenty of sun, watered. . . and not one even came up. Not one. Meanwhile, the birds who stuff themselves at our feeders, drop seeds willy-nilly and we have sunflowers everywhere. These happen to be on the north side of our house where they have shade much of the day, yet they thrive regardless of my attention of lack thereof. We have bird-planted sunflowers in my flower bed where they get watered. They are here at the edge of the bank, where they get ignored. They sprouted up in my failed vege garden and are sprinkled up and down the berm that hides the water line. I'm thinking that rather than plant anything, I'll just put seeds of whatever I want in the bird feeders and see what happens!

Gambling

To make a choice or take a chance,
there is little difference it seems.
Though I claim not to be a gambler,
that being an addiction I missed,
It's true I bet my life, my future, my dreams
on every choice I make.
For no matter how carefully I research,
how many lists I make,
or charts and graphs;
No matter how very certain I may feel
when I at last place the chip of my life on a particular square
- blue chips, red, I've never understood the difference -
or spin the wheel, or call for a hit of fate
on the few sparse cards I hold,
No matter any of that.
The dealer is always someone other than me.
The house has all the percentages.
And I? I have only choices to make,
and always with insufficient information.
That last piece of fact, the detail I cannot know,
how often it has played spoiler to my plans.
The result, the reaction to my chosen action,
that is the missing piece, the part I cannot know.
When I choose "X",
being certain that only "Y"
can result from my well-chosen pick,
When I choose "X" how often "U" results
or even "Q".
And I am left to wonder.
Where did that come from?
(Immediately my mind answers that I must not, ever,
end a sentence in a preposition.)
And there I am, again,
Facing the law of unintended consequences.
Wondering how two plus two this time equals twelve
or green or even square,
since often the answers seem not even to fall
within the realm of what I saw as possibility.
But, know this:
How often "U" or even "Q"
is so much better than my chosen "Y".
How often the house,
the dealer has made a better choice than I.
And I am left, again, to crumple the silly list,
toss out the charts and graphs, and laugh at my own ridiculous self.
Who did I think I was?
Why would I ever dream I could foretell the proper choice?
Will I ever know, really know,
or trust that all Life's answers are so much better than mine?
That each time I feel so driven to make a list,
create a chart, place points upon some silly graph,
Life is off-stage, laughing.
And yet, those lists and charts and graphs are my effort,
my work, my part of this Life,
at least at times.
Perhaps my list-making, chart-drawing, graph-pointing efforts
move me in a direction, or if not that,
at least keep me out of the way,
occupied somehow in a manner that I cannot be an obstacle
while Life goes about Her dealing
and Creation plays House,
dropping finally the ball in the slot,
or turning the last card face up,
While I am left to gasp in wonder,
seeing a jackpot so beyond my dream
that I could not have placed it as the final point on my little graph,
or the largest pie slice of my chart.
And Life again has dealt.
And I, with my incomplete information,
My carefully chosen choice,
Have won again.
Despite myself.

Wings, not Roots

Scottie and I have been married 10 years, together maybe 5 before that, and in that time we've lived in 6 homes. Two in San Diego, two in New Mexico, and two in Three Rivers.

You can see where this is going, can't you? We've put our house up for sale! This was supposed to be the last move - we picked what we thought was a perfect area, built the house to our specs, etc.

So, why?

Health reasons. Didn't see that one coming. But, we've decided to view it that we don't put down roots, we grow wings 'cuz really the choice is accept it as simply a part of the journey or waste time and energy fighting it.

So, we planted trees and put down sod in front of the house, things we hadn't planned to do before fall rains, and I've come up with a way to stage the patio area using outdoor rugs, the realtor tour has been held, and now it's simply a matter of who buys it.

Since I had a major hand in design, I think it's a wonderful, wonderful house, and whoever gets it will be very lucky.

We're off this coming weekend to our proposed landing zone, Sutter Creek, about 4 hours north of here.

So to all my positive-thinking, good-vibe-sending buddies out there: Send those vibes. Think those thoughts. I've found that once a choice like this is made it's best to get it done. Delay is only like cutting off a leg an inch at a time. Rember, wings, not roots.

Poetry

A friend inspired me to dare putting my poetry on the blog. I've resisted 'cuz the blog seems too public and the poetry too private. But, here goes:

Night, finally, after a most stressful day,

With this and that gone wrong and something else

Left undone, messy even.

And I, with this busy brain of mine, struggle to find sleep.

And then, when I have nearly given up and gotten up

Leaving sheets, wrapped in tangles, sweaty,

Sleep finds me and pulls me, unsuspecting, into her strange embrace.

With twitching arms and little snorts of breath

I dream.

Not for me the dreams of grandeur, castles in the sky, No,

I become another, fully and completely, losing finally

That distant one so worry-ridden as to have given up

All connection to the most divine in me. I see

A most phantasmagorical bird, not just soaring, but sailing

As if the sky – the green and lilac sky – was in truth an ocean

Upon which all dreams ever dreamed had taken form, rising like some crazed Poseidon from froth and foam to sail

The lilac waves, drop deeply into green trough, so deep, and rise,

This time climbing, running really, up and up and up

A wild and craggy mountain with ice, it must be ice,

As pink as cotton candy but sharp, oh so sharp, and

Dangerous, it must be, while I – I cannot see myself. Am I

Goat or perhaps some other mountain creature – I bound and bounce

With no thought of falling; no, I lack no confidence, no

Ability to leap from crag to crag, until I fall - -

Suddenly, that clear pink ice whipping by my face while

Lace – lace? – lace blows ‘crossed my eyes, then aside, and I see reflected in the ice

Now turned a crazy shade of neon orange,

That I have morphed again, chameleon-like, into a small

Creature with round and bulging eyes. I’ve seen this

Little animal. I know I have. And, why, for what unearthly reason,

is it wearing a wedding gown? My gown?

Pulling out the veil with tiny near human arms and hands

To form wings with which she – for only women wear gowns –

Can glide smoothly, easily, dreamily even, down

To land in – mud. Ugly dirty-brown mud.

Not rich coffee colored earth. Mud. And deep. It sucks and pulls. I sink.

I. . . I have become me again!

As I struggle pulling lace up from the mud, feeling the

Fabric tear, reminding me of losses, marriages gone sour, lovers moving on,

the very fabric of my life it seems,

Muddied, torn, falling apart in my efforts to extricate it

And myself, or is it more truly from myself, ‘till I tear free and fly.

I AM that phantasmagorical bird. The ocean, that too is me.

I am wave and trough.

And understanding grabs me. Of course, I say, of course

I could bound from crag to icy crag. Or swim through that

Orange ice should I choose. Or even. . .

And I awake. Confused. These walls; this floor. Then, drifting back to sleep I search

Looking for the lilac waves the pink ice, knowing I have lost

Some necessary part of me.

A toss, kicking back the sheets, eyes nearly shut with the

Detritus of sleep.

Again I wake, truly now,

A most diminished me.

Doc Hannan Visits

Doc Hannan, not to be confused with Doc Holliday, came to visit recently.

Do I recall correctly that Doc Holliday was a dentist cum doctor, heavy drinker, and hanger out with both lawmen and gunslingers?

Doc Hannan may have borne some slight resemblance in the bad ole days, but today?? Well Doc, aka Jimbo, is a biology professor, and one of the last great generalists. Jim can answer damned near any question related to biology, and from that question go on to an explanation that takes in all the related ecology and generally winds up with a personal story that sums up the entire thing. He's a blast. From my query about hunting, why some men are so in to killing, etc., we got into an amazing discussion of the stages young boys/men go through related to hunting and how that relates to darned near all activities of the males of our species. Unfortunately Jim hates to write, so the world misses out on a fantastic book. . . . unless he wants me to ghost it!

Being a female of our species, in preparing for Jim's visit I'd cleaned and polished and put flowers in the guest room. Did the flowers draw notice or comment? Nah. . . Not a guy thing. But fun for me anyway.


The guys went off to play on Saturday, visiting a wildlife preserve near Fresno. I sent along a camera and requested photos, but none came back; so the only photo is the one of Jim and Scottie at breakfast.

I've been feeling so utterly awful that all I could do was fake it. When I hurt, I don't sleep. When I can't breathe, I don't sleep. When I don't sleep, well let's just say I get up grumpy and brain dead. Still, we all managed to have a good time.

Sunday was our day to water on the odd/even schedule we adhere to in our little water association. An area on the back of our berm washed out, and I wasted a bunch of water and left a trail of mud.


So, Monday morning after Scottie left to go back up to the Park, I went out to fix the problem. . . and found bear tracks! Not only do I LOVE knowing that Oso is still around and traveling through our place, but it's really good to know that my measures to prevent wildlife eating my plants is actually working. Even though the bear hangs out here, he's no longer eating my plants.

So, I'm working on dressing up the front of the house. For me that means working in the morning and evening when it's less hot. And it takes working in stages. I've never, ever been good at that. Before developing some health problems, I'd dig into a project and work on it until I either finished or fell over. Now, I have to force myself to take it in bits and pieces. I'm sure there is good in this for me, maybe learning patience, but I have to admit I don't much like it. Still, I persevere. And things do get done.

Too Soon Old; Too Late Smart

That was a favorite saying of my grandmother. It's applicable to all of us, from individuals to countries to our species.

Watching my adopted State burn, breathing smoky air, wondering if fires will hit here, I am very aware of how foolish we've been. Population in what's come to be called "the arid West" has grown exponentially in the past several decades. I am one among millions who fled the harsher climate of the Mid-West. We've overbuilt. We've under-planned. We've closed our eyes to the completely unsustainable mess we've been creating.

Here's a small example: Next to us is a vacant lot, just over an acre, owned by a couple who live near LA. They've decided they don't want to build here and have put the lot on the market. Fine. In a recent visit they stopped by to see us, and the conversation turned to the fact that our county is getting more strict with building requirements in these semi-remote areas. That strictness covers things from fire requirements to water to septics. With an attitude of a city dweller Mr. Visitor informed us that the county was being ridiculous that "this area isn't overbuilt; anyone can see that." When we talked a bit about the need to cut back flammable vegetation, he let us know that since he doesn't live here he really doesn't care what happens.

That attitude - know-it-all-don't-care - has contributed greatly to the disaster we're making of Mother Earth. We mess with Her at our peril. Even well-meaning messing often goes wrong. Look at the Forest Service. For years they had a policy of not allowing any fire to burn. While that had a start in protecting people and property, the result was the creation of decades of fuel just waiting to become a massive fire. The West has always had periodic fires. They are a part of the ecology here. With way too much under-story in the forest, way too much dead and dry fuel on the ground, and way, way too many people living in areas that are near-impossible to protect. . . . well, the result is plain. (If you'd like a historical view of how far back that goes, check out The Western Range Revisited, by Debra L. Donahue. It's an informative and very, very scary read.)

Add to that a drought that shows no signs of ending soon (ever wonder if our greenhouse gasses, etc., are causing these almost nationwide droughts?), serious shortages of underground water supplies in much of the West, a terribly strained State economy (to say nothing of various local economies) and the ability to fight the current fires is seriously hampered.

I'm a pretty optimistic person by nature. But, I'm struggling to come up with an optimistic outlook right now. I fall back on a slogan created when the whole "green" movement was young - Think Globally; Act Locally. Turn off the water while I brush my teeth. Recycle. Conserve. Drive less. Use less. Waste less. Perhaps if I'm again One Among Millions it will do some good. Perhaps not.

Hunny joins the family

OK, Hunny is the one in the middle:

Mr. and Mrs. Hunsaker, parents of Michelle, the one on the left, had Hunny for their living Christmas tree this past year. She then transitioned to a pot in the backyard of Michelle and Ruben, the one on the right. Unfortunately, Hunny didn't like life in a pot in San Diego, and was looking a little the worse for wear.

Since Michelle is about as sentimental as I am and just as disinclined to kill a tree if it can be avoided, she and Ruben drove 6 hours plus up here so Hunny could have a "forever home".

I've looked up Apello pine on the net and learned that our girl is native to the Mediterranean, loves heat and drought, and therefor should be very, very happy here! She'll get 50 feet or so tall, and provide a welcome block between us and our neighbors as well as softening the view from the road.

A busy weekend for all of us, including moving another tree that wasn't doing well, then Ruben got sick on the way home. I'm hiding out indoors with our 105 degree plus temps that aren't predicted to mellow before the weekend. I do not like feeling a prisoner of the air conditioning, but that's the story for now.

Creepy Crawlies, Beautiful Blooms, & Pampered Pets

We've got 'em all!



On the Creepy Crawly front, I found this disgusting thing in the dogs' water bowl a few days ago. It's still alive, and when you look at it's jar, the damned thing moves toward you! Yuk.

It's very, very thin, like coarse hair, and maybe 18 - 24 inches long. I looked up every kind of worm I could think of with no luck. I did an internet search for thin worms, etc., with no luck. Of course, the first thing I had done was email Dr. Hannan, but he was unavailable for a few days - during which I panicked.

Was this something that had come out of one of the dogs? Could it get into one of the dogs? What in blankety-blank is it?

Got Doc's answer, and He-who-knows-all immediately identified it as a horsehair worm, benign unless you happen to be something like a cricket or grasshopper. So, I'm holding on to it until Scottie gets home for his viewing pleasure, then I'm sure we'll release the little darlin'.

As ever, BIG thanks to the unstumpable Doctor Hannan for calming my worried mind!


Moving along to Beautiful Blooms, a much more pleasant subject, this is portaluca. It's sometimes called moss rose though it's neither a moss nor a rose. It loves heat, thrives in drought, and is generally quite happy here. I have learned that both deer and bear love to munch on it, but my special concoction of rotten egg, cayene pepper, garlic and urine (up to you how you get that), mixed with water and sprayed on the plant will pretty much take care of that problem.


My mother grew these in Illinois in the summer. Everything I read and am told says they are annual, but hers came back every year. I hope mine do.



This lovely is chilopsis, called desert willow, another misnomer since it is not a willow and won't live in the desert. It does do quite well in heat and drought, just not to the extreme of desert conditions. Hummers love it as do bees and bugs of all sorts.

When we first planted this tree, we had a sudden cold spell just a few days after, and I thought we'd lost her. (I'm calling this one female.) She dropped all her leaves and went dormant, but heat and water along with a little rose food to get her going brought her back. I call her Cindy, short for Cinderella, for her amazing comeback.

Cindy will bloom all summer and keep some sort of beauty going in the midst of heat and smoke and pollution.








As for pampered pets, here they are. I'm sitting on a straight backed little chair, hunched over a table at the laptop, while these 2 slugs lounge on my daybed!

Truth is I'm suffering terrible pet guilt. With all the smoke I just can't walk them every day like I usually do. Too much deep breathing outdoors right now just does me in, so the babies are suffering neglect (right) and I'm feeling guilty. Buck especially has mastered the soulful look that really conveys how badly treated he is.

In my next life I'm coming back as the pet of someone like me!