Today Girly and I went outside to ungarden
the front lawn and the side of the house.
I gave her last year’s hosta stems to destroy and
wild onions to snack on in her stroller.
She waved to the cars passing by and was content
to kick off her shoes and watch the outside world.
To unearth the imported hostas, lilies
comfrey, sedum and yucca plants is landscaping
to some but un-gardening to me. This move
I will take my mini garden and create the
cottage garden that I wanted, that I had,
that I will have again.
The lily shoots were just tall enough to be
liberated from the foundation in clusters.
I grabbed the eight to twelve inch
leaves and slammed them against the
concrete blocks until the occupants
parachuted to safety and the tuberous
roots were exposed. They remind me of
baby yams, before they have time to grow.
I shoveled the sedum off the bed in
front of the porch, the painstaking removal of
grass was calming. I also found some thistle
I will bring to encourage pollinating bees.
My boy men dug out the hostas
with not so much gusto and
enthusiasm for a job well done,
but with resignation and tolerance
of their mother’s whimsy for green live things.
After a rough start yesterday morning
with my child, the police escort to Saturday School,
I suppressed the urge to burrow under my futon
as the rest of us recovered from the brouhaha
and planned to move a piano. Ugh.
I sent the tall one and my bear to
retrieve the foundation musical instrument.
I got the two remaining boys set up to dig up the
fence line of plants on at the rear of the property and
the other in the front of the yard. Plant recognition
instruction is becoming my gift, so I instructed the boy men
on the identification of Comfrey and Hosta plants.
I went next door and did body work on my neighbor’s car.
It felt good to make a template, use a grinder,
measure five times and cut once.
I watched the pop rivet process as I
flashed back to the memory of spending
time under the car as my father did repairs when
I was little. My mother couldn’t keep me from
helping my father with the tools. To this day,
I know my tools and know virtually nothing about
Instead of the piano being delivered to the
new house it got brought to the
old residence to gather arms and strong
backs to unload it from the back of a pick up.
“How many artists does it take to unload a
piano from a pick up?” should be the name of
this post. I just can’t think of a snappy come back
right now, but it was something I don’t want to
relive, right now. I’m happy that it was not a baby
grand piano. That would have made me sad to
have to take out the front window.
*By the way the answer is six.
I was amazed at the silence of four males
trying to remove a piano from the bed of a truck.
Perhaps there was some type of symbiotic telepathic
communication that was at too low of a register
for my female ears, but I was sure someone was
going to get injured since they weren’t speaking aloud.
I realized that someone had to start directing traffic.
My mother also decided that she would be directing traffic
as well. I played head mom and overruled the mostly dominant
grandma in residence and we got the behemoth off the truck onto
the hand truck and into the basement.
Since we completed the momentous task
I figured why not put the couch in the living room
with the chairs and the tables. I directed more traffic
and a living room emerged, next to the dining room.
We all sat for a while on the French Vanilla Cream furniture.
My mother asked, “What is this stain on the arm?”
I giggled and said, not one word.
I had to have my eldest drive part of the way home,
it was dark and I was more tired than I thought.
The next morning, I waited for my child to surface.
He spent the night at his grandmother’s house so
he could take a shower before church.
My mom called at eight am to let me know he was on his way.
He arrived ninety minutes later. It is a twenty minute walk
If you have any interest in being on time.
I watched him zigzag down the sidewalk, like a pinball
until he disappeared from sight four blocks away.
He didn’t go to church, his friend wasn’t going so
by the time he arrive late, he didn’t have to go anyway.
I’ve been trying to parse why he goes to church.
It is just another social avenue for him. He is a model citizen
helpful and polite while he is there. Another clique
while his home and school behavior gets more and
more erratic, defiant and oppositional.
Saturday school was for another violent incident at school.
I really think he wants to get expelled.
How many cries for help are necessary before
his father notices the pain radiating from my child?
His father would need to care.