Gratitude * Sunday
Sunday’s heartfelt tradition.
A time to slow down,
to be grateful.
A list of gratitudes.
Our gratefulness feeds one another.
Quoted from Taryn Wilson
Joining the Gratitude Sunday Tradition at Wooly Moss Roots.
Gray clouds and sun share
the same day’s sky; gardens are
thankful for the days.
Father’s Day Sunday Musings
My little pot of cilantro bolted and blossomed. My parsley has wilted; I can’t seem to keep it watered just right. I struggle with my feeble excuse for a “garden”. Sheesh, can’t even manage a few tiny pots of herbs. I don’t dare plant in the ground as the hubster’s approach to gardening is the scorched earth effect. He has a weed-eater (more power) he takes to the “edges” and anything between him and the edges is terminated with a lovely rim of dirt brown around the house, the fence, and anything with an edge. Over the years I’ve lost sweet william, irises, rhubarb, blossoming alliums, sweet peas, coral bells, blueberry bushes, snapdragons, cosmos, freesia, daffodils, narcissus, crocus, and tulips, just to name a few and all of them planted purposefully, to the overzealous “edge” trimmer otherwise know as the hubster. I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t recognize the decorative plants. He just has more power. The buddleia can be run into by the lawn mower only so many times before it will give up the ghost. Perhaps if I were home all the time I could manage a real (small) garden. In the meantime, I love gardeners and farmers.
The lilacs have survived. They are larger and off in their own corner. I want more. My lilacs came from stock my dad planted when he first moved into the home my mother still lives in. They bought the little two bedroom, one bath, World War II tract home with wood floors, a fireplace, and an attached garage in 1956 when I was three, my sister was one, and mom was pregnant with my brother. My two brothers were born while we were living in that house, it’s the only home they’ve ever known, the only one I really remember.
Dad established the garden first thing after we moved in. He had a family to feed, an income of about $300.00 a month and a $91.00 a month mortgage. He had to support a car to get to work. Raising food was a way for him to “supplement” his income. A few dollars spent on seeds and a few hours spent planting and grooming resulted in vegetables for a family of six. We had a 50′ by 100′ suburban lot and a third of that was devoted to vegetable garden. Every year he hauled in composted manure from a local dairy as our lot wasn’t large enough to keep livestock. Plus we were inside City limits and no livestock was allowed. We also composted all our vegetable trimmings, eggs shells, and coffee grounds.
The lilacs came from some his mother had brought out from Idaho where he’d grown up. He planted the row of lilacs between our house and the neighbor’s, a green and spring-blooming fence. He said when the lilacs bloomed it was time to start planting the garden. He watched their progress each spring as they set new leaves so he knew when to get the garden ready to be planted.
Dad was a master garden; he loved his peppers and tomatoes and corn and cucumbers. He made sure we had fresh greens all summer, and all the flavor spots like radishes, spring onions, and garlic. Mom preserved much of the summer bounty for the winter larder, so we ate fresh home-grown food most of the year. Every evening when he was through with the day’s work away from home he would spend an hour or two in his garden, enlisting help from us kids, before he sat down for the evening to his other hobbies: handmade custom leatherwork and gun cleaning for his deputy sheriff co-workers.
To this day when I see a man working outside on his garden or his car in the evening as I go on walkies, I think of my dad and how active men look so great when they are not sitting in front of a TV, computer, or video game for hours at a time.
I miss him. Keeping him alive through memory: rest in peace Glen Irving Doner.
Flower Watch – blooming attractions in my neighborhoods this week – lavender; hostas; daylillies; cilantro blooms, tiny white lovelies; kalanchoe and yucca, succulent tropicals that amaze me when they thrive in the Willamette Valley; morning glories; bachelor’s buttons.
Currently Reading – Lost San Francisco (an historical picture book) by Dennis Evanosky and Eric J. Kos, Devil in the Milk (a political/scientific treatise) by Keith Woodford; Tiny Terror (a psychobiography) by William Todd Schultz, and Pines (a thriller novel) by Blake Crouch. Yes, concurrently.
This week I have been grateful for:
- The fragrance of a freshly mowed field of clover and grass.
- Time well spent with women friends.
- Oregon late spring weather: sunshine and intermittent warmish rain.
- OREGON STRAWBERRIES. Oregon produce in general.
- My young Boy Scout friends who take the time to say hello to this fat old cranky woman. In public. In front of their homies.
- Teenagers. I love teenagers. They are so refreshing in their ideas.
- Old women. I love their stories.
- Old men. Because they are old men.
- Still being able to work.
- The ripening pineapple on my counter that is scenting my whole house.
- Pain, as every move reminds me am I still alive and have contributions to make. Glowing good health would serve me as well, but that ain’t happening. I take gratefulness anywhere I can get it.
- Cooing over a co-worker’s five week-old baby. And meeting her grandmother.
Namaste. Peace. Blessings.