For the love of gardening

When I am lost, there are certain sounds, smells, tasks, visuals that can bring me home, help me find my way back to myself.

Sometimes there is a "recipe".  If I am feeling disconnected from my roots, I visit my grandmother.  Her voice, the food she prepares for me (somehow she is always making my favorite German foods when I need her to be).  One bite of Grandma's rhubarb kuchen and I'm transported to my most happy place.  The farm, open windows, the summer breeze that back then always kept the farm house plenty cool.  Taffy pulls, dandelion wine, taming barn cats and corn on the cob.  The only consistent home I knew for many many years.  Transported back in time, not via the flux capacitor, but a bite of rhubarb kuchen.

Tombstone Pepperoni pizza and Fresca?  My mom's Thursday night bowling league in Webster.  Allowed to stay up past my bedtime, the cheers of local bowling heros, falling asleep across two plastic bucket seats on the highly polished hard wood.

Mogan David red wine with 7-Up in a tiny but heavy silver chalice?  Christmas Eve at dinner.

The salty, beefy goodness of beef jerky or the quirky sweet & salty treat of peanuts in Pepsi (yup that's right...peanuts IN Pepsi)? Childhood every other weekend rituals with my Dad Mario.

The feeling of packed dirt under my fingernails and a fine layer of black dirt dust over my entire body is like a security blanket. No matter where I am, those familiar sensations ground me to my childhood home and my grandparents.  The act of growing food & flowers taps into an inner peace saved only for the acts of hard work and producing something important. Like clean food for my family and flowers to brighten days.

The David Wattier Memorial Garden was born last year in tribute to my Grandpa Wattier who passed away in April 2012.

This year the David Wattier Memorial Garden began indoors in early April, on a sick day, with David Wattier's great grandson's little pre schooler hands tilling the soil of egg cartons.  It was to be the first year we started our own seedlings using all organic seeds.  The 23 windows in our office have been begging for the opportunity to double as a greenhouse and winter had firmly dug in it's heels. Liam and I were home contagious, but not sick enough to burn a day sleeping.

And so we began:

When Liam saw the pink birthday table cloth make it's second appearance in a week, he was so excited.  He had no idea why, but surely it meant some kind of party was about to happen.

And when I placed the egg cartons we'd been saving out in front of him, his enthusiasm did not diminish, but he did need a moment to contemplate what kind of party this could be.

 He had been eyeballing this box on my sewing desk for weeks, always asking what I was putting in it.  Could he open it?  What's it for mommy?  When he realized this was to be the center piece of our weird egg carton and pink plastic floor party he was all about it.

His wonderful preschool grows their own food in a garden next to the building and the kids get to work in it every day, so upon opening the box, he understood that we were about to have a planting party. He recognized the tomatoes first and quickly declared they were all his to plant.

April and May blizzards continued but the 120 seedlings flourish under east facing windows and grow lights in our office.

We waited.

And while we waited, we reveled in all things spring.  Spring flowers, spring birdies, spring mud, spring blizzards.

poor strawberries

We had so many new birds in our backyard this year!  I've been trying to attract a variety of birdies since we moved in and this spring...success!

And then, right after the  Cinco de Mayo blizzard, the sun came out and beckoned us to bring those babies out into the garden so she could help them grow big and strong.  That was how Liam told the story anyway.  I liked it.

And into the ground they went.  The ground, some buckets, some old soup cans, old flower pots.  Turns out 120 seedlings is...a lot.

Here is what we planted:
Summer squash, zucchini, cucumbers, about 4 varieties of tomatoes, cilantro, Serrano peppers, jalapeno peppers, habanero peppers, "hot" peppers, chives, lavender, dill, spinach, arugula, scallions, garlic, carrots, sunflowers and beans,

 

The 2013 David Wattier Memorial Garden was on track to be the healthiest, most fruitful garden thus far in our gardening career.  All natural, all organic, homegrown, food for my family.

Until... well...let's just say what I knew about chemicals was next to nothing.  I read the label.  Shouldn't the label say it's not safe near gardens on the OUTSIDE, rather than on page 10 of the insert?  And now I know about "drift".  How come "drift" never came up all those summer days in the garden with Grandpa?

When I called the number on the back of the weed killer, which was never intended for the gardens, but the walking paths around them, I was told by the nice lady that none of my garden plants were not salvageable.  None.  Even if they didn't die, any fruits they produced for the rest of the season would not be edible.

I kept it together while speaking to her, but when I called my husband, who was waiting for me at Annika's softball game, all I managed to get out was "something bad happened" and the rest was drowned in tears. Poor Brandon was panicked, he couldn't understand a word I was saying and it is so unlike me to break down so utterly and completely.  He listened through tearful heaves and heard words like "Ortho...weeds...toxic...unsafe...garden..." and said "The garden?  You killed the garden?  That's all?" And then a soft laugh, "Oh baby I'm sorry."

So, here we are 2 months later with a much smaller version of the David Wattier Memorial Garden.  Actually, it could be called the David Wattier Salsa Garden. All in pots because the soil is no good until next season. I'm over the loss of the first garden, I've taken note of the silver lining, the opportunity to learn something about giving up control, grieving and moving on, patience and hard work.

Things are coming along quite nicely.

Under the owl's watchful eye.

I love this little Dalia.  There is something about her all bloomed in bright yellow color, but speckled in dirt that feels good to me.

Unbelievably, summer is winding down.  How can that be?  School starts in just 16 days, but there is still lots of time in the garden.  And then lots of time harvesting and canning.  I'm not wishing away these last days of summer though.

The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just on the body, but the soul.

Alfred Austin 

Me...according to Pink

One day at a Bare Minerals store in the mall:

Me (while looking at 1 million shades of beige mineral foundation)

"What do these do?"

Ms. Minerals 

"That is your warmth and your radiance."

Me (mock confusion)

"Mine?  My warmth and my radiance specifically?"

Ms. Minerals (does not think I'm funny)

"Yes.  And here is your color and glow"

Me (now a smidge frightened by how serious she is)

"You have my warmth, my radiance, my color and my glow?  Seriously, none of those things are registering on my face?  I don't get it, how can this be? "

$250.00 later, I have them all in a shiny black bag. My warmth, my radiance, my pink colored cheeks and my glow.   She had to teach me how to put them back on my face, but thank God I had them back. 

So, I'm a realist, I call it like I see it and I am fully aware that life has faded some of the color and youthful glow from face.  I wasn't really sweating it, but yeah, I've absolutely have days when I peer into the magnifying makeup mirror (standard issue post 40th birthday gear ) expecting to see me and I'm greeted by a puffy, pale, blotchy ...me.  Bigger than life and sporting some wicked dark circles and new facial hair, but it's still me.  

However, I was not prepared to be told by Ms. Minerals at the MALL that I had also lost both my warmth and my radiance.  It was so matter of fact, the way she told me.  Like "Duh.  No one your age has warmth and radiance."  Followed by very clear marching orders.   If I didn't have any other makeup on, I HAVE to make sure to have warmth, radiance and blush.  

I've never worn blush, except when I have a fever.  Then I have a little blush on my cheeks and the whites of my eyes.  So in my world, pink cheeks = sick human being.  

I was surprised by my reaction to the news that basically I was walking around looking like a re-animated corpse, void of any proof of life on my face.  Even though my logical mind was laughing at how the use of these words were playing out when said out loud, my emotional self was kind of hurt. Like she had just revealed a super secret everyone knew about me and I was too stupid to see.  Like all along, I have been high on getting older and believing that the peace and joy and confidence I feel on the inside was being transmitted to the world through my face and all along the ugly truth was that no...it was not.  In fact, all this time warmth, radiance, color...were gone.  Poof! 

And somehow this store in the Sioux Falls mall ends up with every aging woman's goods and sells them back to us.  

"That is your warmth and your radiance."

Well trained consumer that I am, I accept this as truth, hand over my card and breathe a sigh of relief. 

Not two days later I was sitting on a public toilet (like you do) and I look down to see this:

And again I'm at first wildy confused and then instantly horrified.  Why are my pants telling me "I am confident"?  Do I need my waist band to send me daily affirmations?  Is there someone, somewhere, looking at the size of pants and yelling "This one needs a confidence message!"

I'd argue I'm more confident and secure in all aspects of my life than I have ever been.  It is what brings me the peace I thought everyone was seeing on my face.  But something about those pants made the manufacturer anticipate my need for boost of confidence near my zipper.

I don't know.  It feels insulting.  It feels manipulative.  It feels like someone wants me to feel like crap about myself.

Ugh and maybe it feels a little too real.  Maybe I really hate it when someone suggests that the number of my years means something other than that I 'm getting more fabulous each passing day.  If after 40 you start paying for your self esteem and identity, I want more bang for my buck.

You know who totally knows how much I rock and sends me the RIGHT messages for my dollar?

This girl:

Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel
Like you're less than f*&king perfect
Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing, you're f*%king perfect to me

She knows how to motivate this girl.

Where there is desire
There is gonna be a flame
Where there is a flame
Someone's bound to get burned
But just because it burns
Doesn't mean you're gonna die
You've gotta get up and try, and try, and try
Gotta get up and try, and try, and try
You gotta get up and try, and try, and try

She totally knows me. 

So raise your glass if you are wrong
In all the right ways, all my underdogs
We will never be, never be anything but loud
And nitty gritty, dirty little freaks
Won't you come on and come on and
Raise your glass!
Just come on and come on and
Raise your glass!

Knows what's up...

I can't help it, I like to party, it's genetic
It's electrifying wind me up and watch me go
Where she stops nobody knows
A good excuse to be a bad influence on you and you

Most importantly, she knows I'm still a rock star...I've got my rock moves.  

I'll show you my warmth and radiance:

Yeah there it is.  And I'm right...it only radiates more as I get older.  

And for the record...all this was before I purchased my warmth, radiance, color and glow at the mall.  

Boom.

“The scariest moment is always just before you start.” ― Stephen King, On Writing

I'm pretty sure that somewhere in this blog I've ruminated on how I love this kind of tired, the kind that comes from loving people for a long weekend.  The kind of weekend where you cannot get enough of your people, so you forego sleep in favor of endless catching up.  You happily swap nutritious meals for sinfully delicious meals and water for dirty martinis.  Clean air for a stogies. And if it's a wedding weekend your dirty hippie hemp shoes for some jacked up pumps.

My body aches like I ran a marathon, but it's really from the dancing.  But epic, marathon dancing.  For this wedding, interpretive dance, which I'm sure was a treat for everyone present.  It was...epic.  A million years ago, at a bar in The Shire, a person said to a friend of mine "she really gets like...in a trance when she dances huh?  She's in her own little world."  Yes, I do.  Yes, I am.  In my own little world.  I'm a slave to the rhythm.

One of the most difficult transitions in my life has been the one from "dancer" to "former dancer" and for a while, I was always searching for some sort of outlet for my dance need, some beautiful group of colorful wood nymphs just waiting for me to complete their magical dancing troupe.  But one year after another, one stress injury after another, one more kink here and there from arthritis and suddenly I'm no longer even a candidate for my imaginary enchanted forest  dance group.  I'm relegated to physical therapy rubber bands and a constant parade of new injuries...setbacks.

I hate it.

I feel a teenie tiny little bit of negativity in me, so now might be a good time to get this out of the way:

I'm not going to dwell on the last six month except to say it was my own fault.  I let my work life balance slip.  I got totally freaked out by the time commitment for a parent of two athletic and active girls.  Two "joiners". I let everything that was mine go...just end.  Writing, photography, my health.  I let crap I hate is mine go too, house keeping, laundry, clean cars, clean body.

I had surgery that almost killed me and it scared the shit out of me.  When my brain finds an idle second the memory of that day slams back into my head and it scares the shit out of me all over again. I'm sure I need a little help with this one and as I'm shoving myself back up the priority list, I'll get some.  The very fact that I'm writing is progress.   Now I just need to pick up my camera again.  Fear...I hate it.

I haven't worked out since May 8th.  Well, that's a lie.  I did once, took off with my girls to train for a 5k and my hip snapped, face planting me into the road.  I cried while I waited for my husband to come scrape me off the floor again.   I was hurt, sprained knee, sprained wrist, but I can handle sports injuries, I'm not a dainty prissy girl.  No, I  cried because I can't just up and do things anymore and I probably hate nothing more than that.

I'm back to physical therapy rubber bands and "taking it slow".

I lost two Grandfathers.

I gained two heartbreakingly sad Grandmothers who I just want to bring home with me and take care of.

After 14 months in our new community, I will say we haven't figured this place out yet.  Don't know where we fit in.

But...

I also witnessed the evolution of a girl.  I watched my homesick Minnesotan slowly embrace some South Dakota.  It wasn't so much a full on endorsement of life in the sticks, but the constant barrage of comparisons and negativity slowly gave way to mention of excitement for school, for particular people, for activities.  And sure enough, school started and I felt her pull away from me a little. There is nothing as beautifully painful as watching your babies confidently leave you behind.  For now it's just here and there, small, manageable tidbits of time and she is home to me again.  But this is all just practice for what's coming.  X 3.

And the other baby girl, found her sporty spice groove.  Right now, she is an athlete and that's wicked cool. A fierce competitor, with almost no idea how to stop working to be the best.  There is no balance for her right now, only the constant grind to perfection.  I watch her, a proud momma , but I worry and stay close to provide perspective.

My favorite Liam stories for the summer?  Easy.  His impeccable ensembles, hand picked every day by the man himself.

That's all I have to say about that. That 6 months.

And today I'm exhausted.  Good exhausted.  Great exhausted.  Mind, body and soul.  It's been months since I've been completed tapped out by joy.

I love it.

72 hours with my husband's "people" from The Ulm.  Everything flowing simply and with such ridiculous ease.  And so much laughing.  The laughing was so very good.

And in 4 days we have 48 hours with some of my people, my family people.  Pumpkin decorating contests, 5ks, parade of lights, babies that haven't seen each other for months.  Indian corn and craft shows.  Thrift store shopping and a trip to Fiskstal's:)   INTERNET AT MY GRANDMAS!!!  It's time to get our Pumpkin Fest on.

It's been one million years since our faces have all been together at the farm. That's in sad little heart years.   But in 2 short days this farm will be overflowing with all the goods.  All the bigs and minis will descend on the family farm and in an instant it will come alive.  Once again the families will laugh and sing and eat and shout and frolic and drink.  We will watch the sun rise and set here for 3 days.

We will pile on to the already abundant life force this sacred place holds for each of us.

100 years of Wattiers, coming home again and again.

And of course...we will dance.

It feels go to let go of the scared:)  

Hope you are still here<3

XOXOXOXO

hello....is there anybody out there?

Hello.  While my newly crowned 3 year old naps

I'm editing photos and writing for the first time in months.  

This message is mostly for me.

Because I need to remember I can do all this!  

I CAN DO ALL THIS!!!

and i miss you all here in this happy space. Are you still there?

stay tuned...

xoxoxoxo