By ZedZap

Are you nuts? my friend asked.

I’d just told her I signed up for National Write A Novel in a Month (NaNoWriMo).  The entire month of November was to be dedcated to writing a 51,000 word novel.

Well, it did seem kind of crazy since it was Nov 6 on the day I signed up.

It didn’t help that I took off 12 days to fly around the midwest and pester relatives.

When the clock struck midnight on Nov 30, I’d only logged 35,000 words, but I was goofy-glad with some discoveries.

1. The #1 being:  When you have an overwhelming job, just jump in and start.
2. For heaven’s sake, don’t stop and look around. You’ll discover you’re in a big freakin’ pile of work, so just keep going.
3. Decide that there are more important things than projects and enjoy people.

What I ended up with is a raucous, bawdyl romp through the classics that we were forced to read in high school. The Hulk. Dr Phil, and Nancy Drew were happy to join this great adventure, too.

So,  while I didn’t reach 51,000 words in 30 days, I’ll fininsh the last chapter this week.

Too bad I’ll still be nuts.

I visited my mother.

On the first day, my mother didn’t know me when she saw me.

That was okay.  She’s collected a whole lot of birthdays.  She’s had a stroke. I’d prepared myself for such a possibility.

But then, sometime during the second day…she knew me.

I knew the moment it happened.

It wasn’t the “aha” moment I have with friends when I spot them in the grocery store. It was the quiet, solid locking of eyes when two people have shared the same experience. In that deep gaze, images came at me–rapid fire and plush with emotions: teenage arguments; late night talks, sewing lessons; snotty things I’d said…

In no particular order, wordless visions of our lives twined around each other as we stared.

She looked into my eyes and read the depths of my soul, asking me to understand all the words she  wasn’t  able to speak anymore.

“I know you,” was all the vocabulary she was able to say. All my courage and bravado crumbled.

I had prepared for my mother not knowing me.  I was unprepared for the depth at which she knew me.

I’m not for sure who my tears are for….her or me.

I have this habit of reacting as soon as I hear something.  You know it always merits a second look.

It takes me time to shoulder a new habit, policy, or anything involving change.

I find when I stop and look at something from all angles, I usually come away with a different perspective…especially in dealing with people.

Most people are good when you finally see them.                                            Atticus Finch; To Kill a Mockingbird

The phone rang at 12:30 am.

Two rings. It jolted me upright. But when I picked it up, there was only a dial tone.

Probably a wrong number.  Maybe someone grabbed the caller’s phone and shut it off, exclaiming, “Good heavens. Don’t call them at this hour!” Maybe.

Possibly,  it was bad news. A heart attack. An accident. My mind flits to a friend. When her uncle died at 3 am, her husband took the phone away from her, saying her uncle would be just as dead at 9 am; why make folks fret about it in the middle of the night. Let everybody get some sleep.

I rooted back down in my covers, making a nest out of sheets and pillows, getting it tucked in just so at the sides.

The phone rang again.

My arm shot toward the receiver like a yo-yo.

The raucaus laughter of teenagers sounded from the other end.  Then “shh’s” and giggles. I hung up without  saying a word.

My sleep is a fragile thing, like a shadow that I can’t catch. My mind spiraled to my juvie phone pranks.  Like calling the National Gambling Association and telling them, “I bet 50 bucks I can end my gambling problem by the start of next week.”  I was glad I wasn’t 16 and hilarious anymore. Half and hour passed.

I could hear a barking dog. I wondered how far away he was. What was he grousing about?  Images of skunks and  raccoons on night raids filled my mind. An hour winked away.

I got up and padded outside, wrapped in a blanket.

A full moon reigned over the sky. The earth like a stage, lay waiting in silvery-blue light.  The faintest breeze carried star song from the passing constellations.   Fine white crystals spider-webbed across pumpkins and leaves. The first frost of fall.

I smile. Maybe it wasn’t a prank call. Perhaps it was the signal to let me know intermission was over. The second act of the seasons had begun.

I’ve had several people send me carrot recipes.

You can see why….

Thanks Les for making this great photo

I’m not sure why I planted so many. I guess I was having a Scarlett O-Hara moment, feeling that  “Ah’d nevah be hungry again.”

I canned carrots. Froze carrots. I shaved carrots into all kinds of food…even brownies, until Scout and Dallas Cowboy found out and demanded no more healthy food additives for them.

Now, my latenights are busy with sneaking out and leaving carrots on folks doorsteps. BwahHaHaHa…

Beware!! The Easter Bunny is celebrating Halloween.

by Zest-pk

Yes, even though I haven’t posted for most of the summer, I’m still laboring while others are sleeping.

Tonight the kitchen is abuzz with activity.

A three-layered metal contraption called a steamer is percolating on the stove top.  The Swedish genuis who designed it created a method to split open the cells of fruit with heat, and siphon their juicy goodness.

I’ve beaten the wicked deer to the Concords this year. 5-gallon buckets of grapes line up next to the stove, awaiting their turn in the steamer.    I drain the boiling purple juice into big half-gallon jars and listen for the lids to “Ping”, indicating they’ve sealed. It takes about an hour for each batch.

Even though it’s 2 in the  morning when I finish,  I trek the stems and collapsed grape skins outside to the compost pile.  (Fruit flies…blah)

The air is crisp from the first chilly snap of the season. Leaves litter the ground. Orion has returned to the sky after his summer vacation. The faint light of a half-moon illuminates curlicues of steam ghosting off the pot of spent grapes I carry.

It’s a night to remember. Late nights are like that…when you think no one is awake, and you have the stars and quietness all to yourself.

Just as Dandelion wine evokes images of long sunny days, each jar of grape juice, will fill my cloud-ridden winter with crisp autumn nights and the waning moon of summer. I’m really canning moon shine.

A Great Photo by PixieSticks23

It’s the garden’s fault.

First it was the raspberries. Millions of them, dangling like red jewels in the bushes.

Then a heat wave rolled into the valley, and like a Smucker employee, I was picking, jellying, and making cordial for days until…. well…often until morning broke the nightsky.

Then came blueberries, blackberries, peas, and the blessings kept sprouting out of the ground along with a few epiphanies.

Last night I was under the shade tree in the back yard snapping green beans. The thought came to me that this wasn’t as much fun as it used to be and I wondered why.

I have little-girl memories of sitting under the big ol’ elm, and everyone snapping  beans, slapping an occasional mosquito, and sharing their day.  Of course, we didn’t have air-conditioning, so sitting outside, hoping for a breeze to stir the baked air, was a nightly ritual.  We also put fireflies in jars, flipped june-bugs on their backs and watched them spin, and waited for the shift-change in insect hunting go from starlings to bats.

Now, I was under the tree with only the yard cat for company. Everyone else was inside, in airconditioning, watching TV, or in front of a computer.

I realized that the only reason I was sitting under the tree in the twilight was because that was how I had always snapped green beans as I grew up.  I hadn’t thought it through. I guess I thought everyone would drift outside to see what I was doing…in the heat…in the semi-darkness.

I felt kind of stupid.

Life changes. At least the bats still come out.

Family visits are never Silent

A good friend of mine told me he hadn’t ever read this blog. He didn’t have time.

He probably doesn’t have time.  He takes care of his elderly mother 16 hours a day and works the other 8 hours.  His life is full of all the little things that make living possible.

Have you ever taken care of some one who is elderly, ill, or broken? What astounds me is how much time it takes.  Even just to visit. Or if you do a bit more, it takes even more time to  make meals, to provide transportation,  take someone on one of their many trips to the doctor.

Then I realize it’s not just the ill who might appreciate a good story or a listening ear. There are the folks who are grieving.  Others who are lonely. And doesn’t everyone have a nutty relative who needs a visit, but you have to force yourself because their house has pathways through their collective years of newspapers and magazines.and the place smells because they never open the windows?

What would happen if instead of surfing, answering e-maills, or reading blogs, folks were spending time with real people.

Wouldn’t it be great if one day cyberspace was quiet, empty, deserted….. like an abandoned world you see in sci-fi movies because everyone was busy spending “face-time” with others.

How much could we accomplish? How many wounds could we comfort? It’s something to hope for.

Who will you visit this week?

I just came in from the garden. I graveled potatoes.

That’s what my grandmother always called it when we prodded the dirt around the plants, looking for baby potatoes, but left the plants intact so they could make big spuds, too.

“C’ mon” she’d say, “Let’s pick a mess of greens to boil these with.”

She never stepped outside without a bonnet. Never. Her arms were leathery and spotted, but her face was white and smooth like baby’s skin.

Since it was a hardscrabble farm, the only lawn she had was a patch fronting the dirt road that went by the house. The rest was trails through weeds, feedlots, and pasture. We’d wander around gathering a few leaves of dock, and as much Lamb’s Quarter as we could find. We never could find a lot.

“I guess we’ll have to use dandelion greens for the rest,” she’d say. No matter how dry it was—even when there were cracks in the earth—there were dandelions.  We’d only pick the small ones.  The big ones were too bitter.

I suppose they were medicinal. I have no idea what they were supposed to do, except remind me that in hard times, you make do with what you’ve got.

So now my taters are boiling along with a few sprigs of chives. (I figured Grandma wouldn’t mind if I spruced it up a bit.) I’m sitting back, staring at my lawn, dotted with golden flowers, and wondering how many dandelions I’d need to make wine?  As Grandma always said….

“Make do with what you’ve got.”

by WVS

Nuff said.