Water

June 22, 2011 By

*In a drought there’s only one thing to do … wait.  We tried collecting rain in buckets.  But there was no rain.  A line of white plastic pails sat hopefully under the roof line, the heat slowly turning them green on the inside.  The garden grew, somehow, except for the lettuce, planted and replanted, but it just won’t germinate in dust.  Then the well went dry.  Dirty dishwater saved in a watering can, only goes so far in a big garden, and there is less and less waste water as we tighten our usage more and more. Hauling water from town guarantees that. 

During the past seven days, a three-week dry spell ended. I’d been watering my newly planted garden by hand on a daily basis using dirty dishwater and an occassional spritz with the hose,  but now I can take a break.  We’ve had little bits of unmeasurable rain almost every day, mostly late afternoons after the heat of day builds up and during the night, keeping the ground slightly damp.  Then on Sunday, a big rain overnight left two welcome inches in my rain gauge and yesterday another half an inch was gifted us.

There is a one-hundred-twenty gallon rain barrel sitting in the yard but it is not hooked up.  I wait for the for the man who delivered it two weeks ago and promised to come back the next day to install it.  Yesterday, as the afternoon rains came he called to say he was on his way but then decided not to come because of the hail, the thunder, the lightning. Who can blame him?

The people of  Florida are living through a long, hard drought.  I was told that rain levels are down some 25 inches.  Lake levels are down in some areas six or seven feet. There are wildfires breaking out.  Around the world all creatures, human and non-human, wait for the rains to come.

Back in 2004 we had a serious drought here in Central Virginia.  I had moved several years prior to a home situated on the banks of the South Fork Rivanna River Reservoir which is the main source of water for the city of Charlottesville.  We were on a well, but afraid to run it dry, I didn’t water my newly landscaped gardens. The river fell to alarming levels, more like a small stream than the wide expanse of moving water it usually was. Water restrictions were put in place.  I read a newspaper article about a new company in town specializing in harvesting rainwater and became the proud owner of a 3,000 gallon + underground tank, filled with rainwater runoff from the roof of the garage and the kitchen. After that my garden was watered only from that system.  It was an investment that I would make over again if I still lived on a large parcel of land with expansive gardens. But here our garden is tiny and our water usage much lower.

Now we pay the city for our water and besides wanting to save money, I don’t want to overuse the water we have.  If the rain barrel gets hooked up and we continue to have rain, the garden will be in good shape.  But in order keep the humans hydrated in our community we need also use other tactics to conserve this precious resource.   Using water from rinsing and washing dishes to water the garden is a good idea.  I pour  it by the bucket onto thirsty potted plants that go dry more quickly than in-ground plants.  I turn off the water while I’m brushing my teeth, and turn it back on when it’s time to rinse. Collecting water from the shower as the water heats up saves many a gallon, as does not flushing the toilet unless you absolutely have to.  At my house the motto is, If it’s yellow, let it mellow.  If it’s brown, flush it down.  I also plant drought resistant plants in the garden.  Those that can go long periods of time without a good rain or a sprinkle from my hose.  They can begin looking a bit tattered when it’s dry but always come right back when the rain starts falling.  Water is becoming a scarce and precious commodity.  In order for us to continue living as we do, we must use less of it.

*Everything is drying up in the drought, even my creativity, and I know you can’t push the river, but you can try, can’t you?  I still go to the desk every day, as if writing something, and even though nothing comes flowing in, I’ve got to keep those buckets lined up just in case.  A drought can end any time, without warning.  This spell without rain, record-breaking, heart-breaking, leads me to wonder if it ever will rain again, or if this is it … the turning-point in planetary viability, the end of lettuce as we know it. 

*The Lessons of the Well, by Linda Tatelbaum, found in the book, Writing on Water, edited by David Rothenberg and Marta Ulvaeus.

Eggplant, Dill and Basil in the raised bed.

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, stories, The Garden

46 Years!!

June 19, 2011 By

June 19, 1965

Wow!  Can you believe it?  Bill and I have been married for 46 years.  Our anniversary is today, the same day as Father’s Day.  He’s a dad, too, twice.  Probably the biggest question for me is, where in the world has the time gone?  And who are those two strange people who stare back at us in the mirror every morning when we stiffly climb out of bed?  We kind of look a bit different now!

I first met Bill on New Year’s Eve, 1963.  I was waiting tables at my dad’s ski lodge in Killington, Vermont where he was staying as a guest with his girlfriend and her family.  They were in the process of breaking up.  He was at Columbia working on a Masters in International Education,  while I was a junior at Castleton State College in Castleton, Vermont working toward a Bachelor of Science in Elementary Education.  He lived in New York City.  I lived at home down the driveway from the lodge and commuted to classes everyday. On weekends in the winter I waited tables and cleaned rooms at the lodge, using my wages and tips to pay my way through school.  I was dating a guy who worked for my dad as a ski bum and wanted 8 kids.  I was not interested in him or in having 8 kids.  He was just a nice guy who was on winter break from school and loved to ski.  Bill and I were introduced as I was waiting on his table. We shook hands and probably muttered some meaningless greeting.

The next time I saw him, was in the summer of the same year.  I was just arriving home from my job as a cashier at a local super market (the lodge was closed in the summer), when he emerged from the bathroom at my parents home having just showered.  He and his roommate from college, Russ had bought a piece of property at Killington and were just getting started building a ski house.  Russ, an architect would do the designing and they’d build a round stone house through the summer and into the next year on weekends and school breaks.  My dad, an architect and builder himself, was their friend and connection through which they went about hiring workers and learning the ins and outs of building in the area.  My brothers on summer break, worked for Bill and Russ as gophers, digging ditches, carrying lumber and whatever else could be done by preteen kids for very low wages. Living in a tent on the land, Bill and Russ, were invited to use our shower facilities any time.  So they both became what could only be described as fixtures who would emerge from their hot and sweaty building activities to use the shower every afternoon.

They’d often hang around for dinner and take my brothers and a few other local kids, also working on the Round House, to the movies in the evenings as a way to make the kids feel that they were getting a big bonus for their work.  One evening Bill happened to ask me if I would like to go along.  Since living at Killington in the summer was like living at the end of the road in the farthest reaches of the universe, I said sure, not knowing that he was actually asking me out … like on a date.  I had never been asked on a date with a guy who would be toting along his roommate and 4 or 5 junior high aged kids.  What did I know?  About half way down the mountain into Rutland, I asked what movie they were going to see.  There were two small movie houses in town.  Bill said that he and the kids were going to see a Tarzan movie. Russ was going to see Hud, starring Paul Newman and Patricia Neal.  I said I’d like to tag along with Russ not knowing I had just insulted the man I would marry one day.

After that little fiasco, Bill asked me out again, but this time Russ and the kids were not in attendance.  We went to summer stock productions in the area and ate delicious dinners together.  We were both very shy but before long I decided I really liked this guy.  There were no bells ringing and sparks flying at the time, but  I considered him a very good friend.  Once the summer was over and everyone went back to school, Bill went back to the Big Apple, returning frequently on weekends to work on the house.  By that time, his tent was furnished with a fridge, a small TV and a telephone, but he still came to my house for his daily shower and my mom’s great food.  As winter approached he’d stay at the lodge, playing the guitar in the wine cellar in exchange for room and board.

When Bill couldn’t be in Vermont, he’d call me. Letters ensued. I started writing letters back and lo and behold, I started hearing bells and fireworks. We started talking nightly in between his long drives to Vermont on most Friday nights and his long trips back to New York on Sunday evenings.  Through the long snowy winters he’d continue to come to Vermont even though he couldn’t work on the house.

You could tell my parents adored him and were like cheer leaders rah-rahing us on into holy matrimony.  He had the right kind of name, was the right color and they were anxious to marry me off into a good family.

On the other side of the aisle, Bill’s folks lived in Northern Virginia. His mother, was not too crazy about me. My Polish immigrant last name, Zabski and my  being from No-wheres-ville, America wasn’t terribly exciting.  Bill was her only child and I’m not sure any woman would have been considered appropriate to her.  His dad, on the other hand was a sweetheart.

We made it through all the ins and outs of getting married and tied the knot the week following my college graduation.  The rest, as they say, is history.  There were two wonderful kids to raise, ups, downs and almost splits, but we always worked through the worse and into the better.  It’s been an amazing trip and I cannot imagine what life would be like without my Bill.  He is my one and only sweet man!

Our Family including Midget the dog!

So here is to us my love, on our 46th!  I LOVE YOU!!  Happy Anniversary!

Together at somebody elses wedding!

Filed Under: stories

Burying Mom

June 8, 2011 By

Mom surrounded by my brother Zed, myself and brother Reid at a family reunion in April, 2006. Photo by cousin Jane Anderson.

She’d made it plain for years:  “When I kick the bucket, I don’t want a fancy funeral.  I don’t want you to spend any money on a casket.  I just want to be cremated and buried in your father’s grave.  No extra burial plots.  They are too expensive.  Just take a spoon or something, dig a hole and dump me there.  But don’t get caught. It’s illegal, you know. You could be fined or maybe arrested.”

She’d fought long and hard with the local authorities over the cost of dad’s plot in their community cemetery and she continued to rant for years about it.  I’d listen, laugh, let it go in one ear and out the other.  Months later she’d bring it up and we’d have the same conversation all over again.

For a long time it seemed like she’d outlast all of us.  As time passed she got feistier and more demanding about what she wanted.  Then she was diagnosed with lung cancer.  She underwent chemo, lost her hair and started asking us to choose belongings of hers that we would want when she finally “kicked the bucket.”  She would dutifully put our names on pieces of furniture, paintings, appliances, etc.  She’d occasionally change her mind and want to take back what she had promised but in the end everyone in the family had what they wanted.

So it was on Thanksgiving Day, 2008, that my brothers, my nephew with his wife and daughter met my husband and me at the cemetery where my dad had been buried.  It was located in a small New Hampshire town where my parents had once lived.  The wind was howling, whipping snow flakes through the air and the sod around my father’s bronze marker was already somewhat frozen.  My brother Reid hacked away at it with a spade he’d brought along just for the occasion while the rest of us danced up and down trying to keep warm.  We kept watch for the authorities mom had warned us about. Looking over our shoulders as cars approached, we’d tell Reid to stop, and all gather together around the grave to hide our illegal grave digging.  We laughed and giggled and I think we all felt like we were all playing roles in some great American farce.

When Reid had managed to carve out a six-inch square, Zed poured a handful of ashes into the shallow grave.  We tamped the sod back in place, barely leaving a sign that the earth had been disturbed.  I suggested that we pause to a say a final farewell to her, but the wind pushed and prodded us to keep moving.  A thin blanket of snow began gathering in some of the more sheltered areas around us.  Later over roast turkey and all the fixings we laughed about how we had pulled it off.  She got what she wanted and we once again laid claim to the unconventionality that seems to forever be the trademark of my family.

Mom died 4 years ago May 21, 2007.    It took well over a year to bury her.  I scattered more of her ashes under the Smoke Tree Bill and I planted in her memory at our home in Virginia where she’d spent most of her last seven years living with us.  She had smoked cigarettes up until the day before she died, addicted and constantly denying their role in her demise.  That Smoke tree is lovely in the spring covered with large clusters of tiny pink flowers that resemble plumes of smoke.

My brother, Reid, died a year ago on June 1st.  His ashes are scattered throughout the woods of New Hampshire where he spent hours in the warmer months gathering wild mushrooms.

Filed Under: stories

Alice In Wonderland

May 20, 2011 By

A few weeks ago I tumbled down a rabbit hole and found myself on the streets of New York City! I went by train accompanied by my sweet man and one terrible cold that wouldn’t seem to make up its mind as to where to land … in my head or in my chest.  I had spent 2 days prior to leaving considering whether or not I should go, having relapsed into a cold I thought I was over a few weeks beforehand.  But armed with my Doc’s blessing and some chinese herbs I decided to give it a whirl. The train was paid for along with tickets to 3 broadway shows.

By the time we arrived in the city, my symptoms were worse and I was regretting my decision.  But once we checked into our hotel and took a walk in nearby Bryant Park I was feeling so much better.  It was a beautiful 70 degree afternoon, laughing children rode painted ponies on the carousel, pink tulips were in full bloom and a street drummer around the corner on 5th played to a crowd of onlookers, each of us moving in our own ways to his magical beat.  Here I was in the Big Apple in all of its busy glory and it was difficult not to get swept up in its seductive splendor.  We decided to stay in that first night to give me some healing time.  Usually we’d be out looking for a good film that presumably might never make it to Charlottesville, but that night my tired body gave up and shut down at 9:30.

I have not always loved New York.  Until I graduated from high school on Long Island, I adored it.  It was where my dad took us Christmas shopping every December, where I first went to the circus and where there seemed to be so many adventures afoot.  In my senior year my parents actually allowed me to take the train into the city all by myself to meet a friend.  I got dressed up in my finest and met her under the clock in Grand Central Station.  From there we walked up 5th Avenue, ate lunch in a swanky cafe, shopping as we went along.  I bought a pair of shoes my father deemed a waste of money.  But I was thrilled with them and the opportunity to play at being a grown woman for a day in what I thought was the most amazing city in the world.

After graduating from high school I immediately moved to Vermont where I went to college.  I got married the weekend after my college graduation and then lived in Vermont for the next 18 or so years.  I didn’t make it back to the Big Apple much but when I did, I felt it was a crushing experience.  If you’ve ever lived in the rural north you’ll know what I mean. New York equals too many people, too much frenetic energy.  Not something I was used to by that time.  I have difficulty with crowds and the population of New York does nothing but grow. However, my fondness for The City That Never Sleeps is returning.  Even not feeling 100% well I loved every minute this last trip.

The day after we arrived I was still feeling under the weather, but we walked up 5th Avenue to the Plaza Hotel where an outdoor exhibit by Ai Weiwei, was in place.  He is the Chinese artist recently detained by the Chinese government and has only this past week been allowed to see his wife.  The Chinese authorities are once again at work silencing dissidents who speak their truths and Weiwei has been very active on that front.  Works by Weiwei are being exhibited in a number of venues around the world at the moment and his arrest has done nothing but make the Chinese government’s actions more obvious and his work more popular.  There is nothing controversial about the work we saw.  The pieces are simply bronze sculptures of characters in the Chinese Zodiac, beautifully executed.

Besides seeing two movies and three astounding plays we skipped the usual gallery routine and played first time in New York tourists.  The weather was spectacular so getting me inside for lengthy periods of time was difficult.  We went to the Central Park Zoo, the Top of the Rock and the wonderful farmers Market at Union Square.

The last day we were there was the most rewarding for me. We had gone to see the matinée performance of Jerusalem, a play that was definitely not my cup of tea.  (Look on my husband’s blog at View in the Dark to read his critical responses to all of the shows we saw and the movies, too. )  I was very disturbed by the play and needed to just sit and talk.  We stopped to have dinner at a restaurant on 45th St. between Broadway and 6th Avenue, across from a fairly new boutique hotel.  We were seated in a large window looking out on the street and the hotel entryway.

While we were leisurely discussing and enjoying well prepared steaks and accoutrements, I noticed an older woman going through large garbage bags near the hotel entrance.  She was dressed in simple but immaculately clean clothing and did not look like your average homeless woman.  She had no bags full of belongings with her and no vessel for collecting money. She and the maintenance man who was bringing out more garbage bags, seemed to be acquainted.

Being a shy type and very much an introvert, it’s difficult for me to go about striking up a conversation with just anyone on the streets of New York, especially a homeless woman who might very well not appreciate my approaching her and who might be … you know, crazy or something. Talking to homeless people can be a problem among the Haves of our country.  It almost seems as though we believe that simply making a connection with them will somehow make the needy person’s situation contagious and we’ll instantly become Have-nots. We can’t face the possibility that we may someday be in the same situation.

As I sat there enjoying my evening meal, I watched as numerous people passed by this aging woman on their way over to Broadway, without giving her a glance.  I decided that I needed to acknowledge her, to let her know that she was part of this glorious world we live in, even as she suffered.

After we finished our dinner I crossed the street and started talking with her.  I noticed she was not collecting scraps of food but empty soda bottles and cans for their refund value of 5 cents apiece and that the maintenance man was handing her the most promising bags of trash.  I told her my name and started asking her questions.  She stopped her work, smiled at me, introducing herself as Alice and that she sometimes liked to call herself Alice in Wonderland.  Looking to be near my age but tad older, she told me that she was a retired nurse and had grown up in an orphanage in Austria.  She said that she was going through tough times, but she knew she’d get back on top soon.  She thanked me and seemed very grateful for my stopping to speak to her.  I gave her a hug and a few dollars and she asked where she might find me so she could repay me one day.  I told her that it wasn’t necessary and that I’d always be thinking of her.  I’ve kept my promise.  A day doesn’t go by that I don’t see her on the busy streets of New York collecting bottles and cans so that she can get through her days and back on top.

I don’t expect an award for doing what I did, but I do acknowledge that my stopping to chat with her was something new for me. My courage is growing.  Alice is someone with a message for the rest of us who enjoy our lives filled far too many things.  Alice is no drug addict or crazy person.  She is a proud, hard-working woman with needs, living in a society that too often passes her by, not recognizing her presence, not willing to help.

Filed Under: Life, stories, Travels, wonderings

It Just Keeps Gettin’ Richer!

April 15, 2011 By

Bend of Ivy Lodge

I just returned from an amazing week of friendship, laughter, love and creativity.  It all began in Charlotte, NC, at the airport, where my good friend Sharon and I met and continued on to Asheville together.  It was a warm, sunny day and very windy.  We never expected that the next day would be cold and blustery with snow showers dampening the streets of Black Mountain. There, we spent three days exploring and spending time with my daughter and her family,  including one special day alone with Lisa herself.  I was so happy to see them all and shed a few tears as we drove away on Thursday towards our next destination.

I don’t get to see this part of my family more than 3 or 4 times a year so each visit is a special time as we all get re-aquainted.  I noticed that 10-year-old grand-daughter Zoe, is growing taller and more beautiful and that grandson Noah’s sense of humor and imagination is blossoming like the wild Rhododendrons that soon will color those smokey blue mountains in lovely shades of pink.  Both children told us their very own versions of how the world was created which cracked us up and gave us pause as to how wise these young ones are.  I wish I had recorded it.  These days details slip so easily from my mind.

I read one of Zoe’s freshly written stories.  She is already a wonderful writer, knowing exactly how to capture the reader in the first few lines of her tales dealing with everyday challenges, often speaking in the voice of a cat, dog or horse.

Noah gifted both Sharon and me with beloved toys he gave to us with pure, joyous love. We were both presented with well-worn Matchbox cars, a race car for Sharon, a police car for me.  To try to give them back at the end of our stay would have been a deep insult so my gift now rests on a windowsill in my studio that holds other small, precious items people have honored me with.  

I’m sure they noticed new wrinkles on my face, my hair turning more gray and the growing forgetfulness that seems to haunt us elders.   I remember noticing with sadness and sometimes shock my own mother’s aging when Lisa and Mark were small and thought that one day, they would be experiencing the same feelings as their mom slips into her dotage.

On Thursday we spent 3 hours with my friend, Clara, who I’d spent time talking to on the phone during our 6 month Live Now teleclass. We’d never met in person so it was a delight to finally meet her and I look forward to seeing her often whenever I get to Asheville.

Afterwards we sped up to the Bend of Ivy Lodge near Marshall, where we spent a long weekend with 12 awesome women and the amazing Patti Digh and David Robinson at a retreat based on Patti’s book, Creative is a Verb. She is also the author of Life is a Verb and 37 Days, all favorites of mine.  Patti and David were my teachers in the Live Now class mentioned above.  Artist Kim Joris, came with a van full of odd pieces of this and that and enticed us into creating works of recycled art from her fabulous collection of  findings … old books, jewelry, door nobs, machine parts, etc.  Dava nourished us with her sweet and savory vegetarian creations.

The group of women I met were simply spectacular.  Ranging in age from twenty- something to seventy-something, we came from different corners of this country with one from Calgary, Canada.  We shared our stories, our strengths, our weaknesses.  We taught each other what we’ve learned over our lifetimes.  There were tears, smiles and lots of laughter.  It was one of the best weekends I’ve spent on retreat.

I left feeling I wanted to pack Patti, David, Kim, Dava, along with all of my new friends into my suitcase and whisk them home with me.  What a perfect team we’d be:  continuously inspired, well nourished and always in a creative frame of mind.  But alas, we all have our own lives and families so none chose to come with me.  But I have a feeling we’ll see each other again.

I’m home again, with a nasty head cold that blossomed as soon as I walked in the door.  I’m happy to be here and celebrating that we have finally sold the home we moved from last June, after its lengthy stay on the market for a bit over a year.  The money is in the bank and there is a huge burden lifted from our shoulders!

Filed Under: stories, Travels
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