When You’re Not in Kansas Anymore, Dorothy

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.

No Hope in Reusable Grocery Bags

I know some of you come here for your zen moment. And I apologize in advance that it’s not going to happen with this posting.  If you need a positive moment, maybe you should go over to Laid Off Now What? Les is the most upbeat guy I know in the face of unemployment, but even the subject of reusable bags might knock him down.

Now I admit,  reusable bags save a lot of plastic trees and real trees too. I have 7 fiber bags and one nice plastic-coated one that I won at a “Sustainable Environment” show at the convention center.  I won it by knowing how much compost a pound of worms  could process in a day.  (Don’t hold your breath waiting for me to tell you, because I forgot. It was multiple choice and I happened to guess correctly.)  But the point is….I’m interested in doing my environmental share in case you were thinking  that I’m a complete eco-slob.

The problem with those dratted reusable bags is that they make my blood pressure spike.  My shopping trips begin as pleasant strolls through the aisles matching coupons to things that I need. Then I reach the check out and wait in line, and just when it’s MY turn. I remember those STOOOPID bags are still in the car.

“Paper or plastic?” the checker asks. Oooooh the guilt. Then then the irritation. What is this….the 50th time I’ve forgotten those bags?

“Just throw it all back in the cart. I’ll bag it standing at my trunk,” I reply.

Well, that was a lousy idea. Besides standing in the rain, getting wet, most of the people in the parking lot thought that I’d probably stolen a basket of groceries and wheeled it directly to my car.

I used to lament loudly over my bag-dementia. Folks with me  in the check-out line had lots of suggestions. Like a frantic victim looking for a cure. I’ve tried most of them:

• put them in your purse. (They’re huge. This only works if I’m carrying a gym bag as a purse.)
• put them in the front seat with you. (Nope. They blend in with all my other front seat essentials: Kleenex, Chapstick, mints, notebook, pens)
• set them on your dashboard. (I’m not a race car driver, but not even a hula doll with a suction cup will stay on my dashboard.)
• “I sit on them,” one overly eco-confident shopper bragged to me. (Well sitting on those scratchy little buggers would tick me off even more. I’m already kicking the pens, notebooks and sliding hula doll back into the car so I can close the door, now  I have to  fight with bags, too?

No way. Those bags have more evasive moves than Chuck Norris. They know when to collapse and go limp so you can’t stuff anything in them. They know when to take a dive and roll their contents under seats. They lure you with their roominess and then laugh when you can’t tote them with 18 pounds of kittly litter in them. Those bags are clever adversaries.

So I resolved there’s no hope for this situation—until last week. Last Tuesday,  I ambled across the parking lot and a sign over one of the cart “corrals” read: DID YOU REMEMBER YOUR BAGS?

Hot dog! Now that’s what I call a public service announcement.  I grabbed a bag out of the front-seat rubble and shopped with the smugness that sustainability experts  must experience—until I arrived at the check stand.

Somewhere in my aisle meanderings, I’d laid my bag down.

Who knows where?

I hate those bags.

Dogs Waiting With Cats

Even in the midst of crummy news, there are things to smile about.

Miss Kitty has a growth on the side of her mouth. It doesn’t seem to bother her a bit. She still presents mice at the back door step and is rolly-polly fat.

We hauled Miss Kitty to the vet this afternoon. I was in a pouty mood because my dentist had just told me that I needed a crown on a tooth, yet he can’t get it done before my insurance runs out. It seems he’s fully booked.

“Busier than I’ve been in several months,” he declared. It’s because of all the people laid off of work, trying to get dental work done before their insurance runs out.”  (Yeah, tell me about it.)

So our  family made it an outing to take Miss Kitty to the vet. I sat in  the cramped waiting room stewing  about  how to get a new crown, CowboyFan is sitting next to me wondering how much we actually need this cat (who never liked him). Scout is holding the cat which has lodged its head in Scout’s armpit, thus believing it’s hidden.

The door opens and a dog as big as a Shetland pony enters. It’s a Great Dane/ elephant mix.

The little poodle, who had been showing off by prancing circles on her hind legs, huddles between its owner’s legs.  A cat scuddles to the back corner of its carrier. Miss Kitty lets out a low moan (although she couldn’t see or smell the G.Dane—remember her head is rooted in Scout’s armpit which should stun both her optical and olfactory senses for at least a week).

The Dane’s name is Daisy. She’s orangey brown and looks like someone slung a black paintbrush at her, creating a brindle effect. Her owners couldn’t afford her anymore, so they’d dropped her off at animal rescue. The couple who adopted her brought her to the vet  for a check up.

Daisy  is a good-hearted doofus. She  lays when her new owner tells her, “Down.” Then she crawls like a marine across the floor on her doggy elbows to sniff the poodle cowering against the wall.She tries to make friends with a poster of a dog. Within minutes the waiting room is laughing at her Jim Carey antics.

CowboyFan is chuckling and starting a community conversation about pets. I am laughing and thoughts of my dental work fade away. Miss Kitty is so relaxed that someone asks if she’s alive since there’s the body of a cat splayed over Scout’s lap (her head is still in his armpit, so she may have  passed out).

Miss Kitty will have surgery.  We will take care of her and be reminded of what a gift pets are to us. They jog our focus that there are beings outside of ourselves. They teach us about  love, companionship, and an honesty about life. They remind us to hope. They remind us to laugh.

Hope is a Fuzzy Kitten

I think it’s no mistake that all babies (except maybe spider babies) are cute. Even piggy babies are cute.

But for HOPE on a dark night??   Nothing beats a kitten.  Purrrrrrrrrr

For more cuties see: AmO Images: Cute Little Cats