This morning I woke up early, made some coffee, took it back to my bedroom, read a novel and drank the coffee, and then went back to sleep. This is a lovely Saturday morning thing to do. I woke up much later, in time to have breakfast near lunch time. Then I went and stood out on my patio and looked at the long grass and the dandelions that have gone to seed. I should have mowed last week Saturday, but I didn’t. I forget why. The weather may have been unsuitable, or, likely, I was probably just lazy. Anyway, I said to myself today that I must mow, that I would go inside, have one more cup of coffee while perusing Facebook, and then come out and mow the lawn.
So I had a cup of coffee and perused Facebook, then looked out to see wet paving stones. It’s raining, not hard, but the invisible misting of Western Washington. One does not mow wet grass. The grass would stick to the mower blades and clog them up. I’ve experienced that with a walking mower; I don’t want to experience it with the driving mower I have now. It’s a John Deere. Only the best for my dad, whose lawn equipment I have inherited.
Rain is forecast for today and tomorrow. Monday, when I’m back at work, it will be overcast but not rainy, then rain some more Tuesday and Wednesday. Later next week, it’s predicted to dry up a lot and get very warm—in the 70s (Fahrenheit) Thursday through Sunday. So I’ll probably have to mow three weeks’ worth of growth next Saturday. I hope it doesn’t become disgracefully shaggy by then. In the front, at least. The back yard will become disgraceful; it already is. But the front yard is not quite as wild, not quite as infested with dandelions.
My beloved town, Lynden, Washington, is known for its beautiful, manicured lawns. My yard does not fit in with that stereotype. Fortunately, I live in an obscure cul-de-sac, where the pressure to have a beautiful lawn is less. Our yard has never been the smooth, clipped ideal, but it has not always been as weedy and ragged as it is now.
During the final years of my parents’ lives and for several years after their deaths, I simply did not have the heart for lawn care. The best I could do was keep the yard mowed, and often I had to pay others to do that. I also stopped doing container gardening on my deck. I used to have many pots of beautiful, fragrant flowers, but for a number of years I’ve had pots of dirt, empty pots, and an unkempt deck. Sometimes I would buy some plants to put in the pots, but then I never would, and they would either die of thirst or survive until winter froze them. It was hard for me even to get around to throwing away the little pots of dirt in which they died.This year, I’m trying again to climb out of that. Last fall, my great-nieces and the boyfriend of one of them cleaned my deck for me. They emptied out pots of dirt, threw away any junk, piled the pots neatly. Now, a couple weeks ago I went to a nursery (maintaining safe social distance, blah, blah, blah) and bought a lot of plants and a lot of potting soil. I have planted some, and I am confident I will also plant the rest, and then I’ll get some more and plant those, too.
It’s been a number of years since I sat out on the deck in one of my Adirondack chairs, drinking coffee, but I have done it this spring. One good thing about the stay-at-home order is that, when I take a break from work (I am entitled to a 15-minute break morning and afternoon), I can go sit out there. I set a timer on my phone and just sit and look at the yard and trees. I’ve been taking pictures of how, as the trees leaf out, they hide the unlovely, graffitied, buildings across the creek (Vander Griend Lumber) and the milk-drying towers of Darigold. They can’t hide the Darigold noise, but I have to just live with that.
I am still mourning my dog. His beds are still around the house, his dishes are still in the kitchen, and his leash is still in my car. I have received back a box with his ashes, along with his paw print in clay and a clipping of his hair. I ordered a glass locket for his hair. It was hard to put in because it stuck out the edges. I ended up stuffing the hair in, closing the locket, and then trimming the hair away that stuck out. I wondered if I would ruin the hair in my attempts to preserve it, then told myself that, thanks to my lax housekeeping, I have lots of his hair still around the house, particularly in clumps under the furniture. I laughed at my own joke. I always appreciate my own wit. If I don’t, who will?
I said something similar about my dad once. Long ago, I worked at a place that published automotive information and textbooks. When the first book I edited came out (Automatic Transmissions and Transaxles), it had my name in the credits, and my dad wanted to buy one. I went to see the production manager and told him my dad wanted to buy this book. He laughed. I said, “Hey, if my dad didn’t think I was wonderful, who would?” The manager gave me a freebie to give to my dad.
Another thing I said about my dad was that he was interested in details of my life that even I found boring. When we talked on the phone, he often asked, “What did you have for lunch?” I would struggle to remember because I lead a boring culinary life. But my dad wasn’t just making conversation, he genuinely wanted to know. He cared about me more than I cared about me.
My parents’ deaths have not left me without anyone to care. I have so many people who care. When my dog died, so many people expressed their sympathy through social media, emails, even cards, and my brother called me from Iowa just to give me his condolences. Yesterday, May 1, a member of my church small group came to my house (wearing a mask and maintaining safe social distance, blah, blah, blah) and brought me a little jam jar with lilacs, tulips, and a little something else I didn’t recognize but it’s pretty. The flowers were for May Day. They were so fragrant.
Today’s rain has prevented lawn mowing, but there are many other ways I could use my time. I could clean house. I could plant flowers. I could sit around all day reading the Inspector Gamache mysteries by Louise Penny. Which will I choose? The suspense is killing me.
