Walking on and jumping stones in the back garden.
Tag: Wilbur
counting joy
The blur of the busy, the full plate, and the inability to see what is missing or left out or left behind until I trip over the very necessity that I proclaim I steadfastly chase and hold onto dearly . . .
Joy.
In the darkness that I allowed to blossom last week, I saw the glories of fall—the orange and gold leaves of the massive tree I can see from my kitchen window! I have observed this tree washing dishes and cooking and watering plants and wondering how I am going to close my two kitchen windows tight. The tree is a few doors down the block in another backyard. Green all summer, it has slowly been turning into a mighty blaze of autumn color. Last Monday, it was glorious as if lit from deep within, as if ablaze of yellows and oranges. I was almost unable to take in so much color. As the week moved forward and the wind picked up, topmost leaves fell in a rain of gold. By Wednesday, some of the orange was fading into brown and some of the brown joined the rain. By Friday, the gold had almost vanished and the tree top was almost bare, and the weekend saw more of the same. Today, much more than half the tree is all branches, a skeleton of its summer self.
The noticing filled me with something that I had lost to exhaustion and frustration.
I can admit to missing the necessity of raking leaves. I know I used to complain when my Madison gardens were filled over and over with the leaves of big trees for what felt like months. And I miss the Julia as a little girl who raked and jumped in piles and enjoyed it all. Now, I look in yards full of leaves with a bit of longing, but not enough longing to volunteer to help rake. Maybe some year soon?
beginnings again
It is a beginning of September and my traditional time to return to what fuels my creativity and thus, my soul. Cool weather, the first sight of the un-greening of leaves, and children back to school. And a morning ritual that I have abandoned during a summer because who in their right mind can be disciplined during the hot, sun drenched days with a demanding offspring. But right now, the house is quiet, I am sitting at my desk and the only thing to do is to look for and return to how work happens. It is a return and it is always new.
I seem to have many loose threads that go together fine in my living them but don’t make for a cohesive blog post. And I haven’t spent enough time writing this summer to keep them all going.
Baby Alfie is two weeks old. He has presented himself as a child who needs to be held to sleep which is tough on his parents during the night, but as the visiting grandma of the day to sit and hold a little baby who is happily sleeping in my arms is such delight. He who I did not expect continues to surprise me. There is no doubt that I have loved my children and Wilbur, but I have never been drawn to infants. This one has opened a new place for me.
And it is worth noting.
unexpected life
Begun on the 5th, finished on the 7th.
Sitting on my back porch, in some stillness. In my sight lines are some less than perfect pots of flowers and herbs that I’ve planted and babied in the blistering heat, a brilliant hydrangea in our back garden that is in full bloom, and the garden behind ours, long neglected yet still punctuated with blooming perennials that are too stubborn to recognize that they are no longer tended.
Yesterday was rather idyllic. A summertime community picnic in Concord. Hot dogs, Wilbur’s first, and hamburgers, sweet tea and strawberry shortcake. And apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Firefighters set up a flat house with flames coming through windows and doors, all on hinges, and gave children the chance to aim a “real” fire hose and shoot water at the flames until the flames were defeated. The line was too long for Wilbur to wait, for any of us to wait, but he loved watching other kids with the hose. There was a playground with a sand pit for the pleasure of the littlest ones including Wilbur and his aunty Julia. There was a four piece band of what I thought of as old codgers playing blue grass and old rock standards. Those codgers may have been younger than I am. Best of all, we took a train to the picnic! Wilbur’s current high interest topic is trains of all sorts and sizes, and so we met three stops on the transit line from Concord and took two little train rides to and from the picnic. It was well worth it as everything about the train, especially moving, was fascinating to the little boy.
because it’s june, june, june, june . . .
I am a gardener.
I’ve begun at least four memoir pieces with that sentence but honestly, I wondered if I would ever really feel like I was that declaration again. At the blue Victorian that we moved to from Madison and in which we spent the Covid years, I cultivated a small vegetable patch that was shaded part of the day by the houses around it. It is never a glorious garden but it gave us something to do that first summer of shut down and there were tomatoes and greens and peppers and a small pumpkin.
Early on in my tenancy at our present house, I asked the landlord if I could garden. The foundation planting was sparse and old. There must have been other shrubs and bushes at one time but what was left was four plants spread far apart and planted up close to the house.
My landlord said I could do what I wanted to do and even volunteered a bit of help—his landscapers trimmed bushes that needed the trimming and even took the grass up when I decided on the shape of the front garden bed.
I started planning the front bed while I was sick and unable to do much running around. As I began the planning, I wondered if it made sense to invest in a garden that would take a few years to develop and cultivate in a rental house but I came to the idea that I have made three gardens, each in a house that I owned. But that after planting and tending and loving those gardens, I sold the houses and left those gardens. And it wasn’t so much the beauty of the gardens that I was/am most attached to, it is the process of making a garden and making a garden in the front of this house that we live in would give me pleasure.
an old lesson, once again
I have spent a month sick, in one way or another—coughing, first and foremost. A chronic cough that I could not shake. From a flu. It was not so bad as to not go about my daily round, but bad enough not to be able to do anything without cough drops and my water bottle to keep the eruptions at bay.
But they were not really kept at bay. I sat through classes and choir practices vainly attempting to hold back my coughing. I was not, however, feeling ill enough to do more than use home remedies and rest a little bit. Just a little bit.
Finally, I was too long coughing and thought something funky was going on with my eyes, I visited the doctor, had an x-ray taken and sent home with the usual rest and fluids instructions. Oh, and medication for conjunctivitis.
sentences
Grandma cough. Mama cough. Dada cough.
Wilbur put nouns and a verb together. I don’t know if it is his first sentence but it is the first I heard.
It was Wilbur on FaceTime last week, on a Friday when I had planned to spend the day with him and his mother, but they are all sick from something that Justin brought home after a work trip. I didn’t need to catch it and so, I stayed home and got to spend some phone time with the precious boy.
And heard him practice a new acquisition.
a cherished empty box
I think I’ve started every writing of the last two weeks with some version of “gray day.” And rain this morning, like so many others. If this was snow, we’d be up to our eyeballs.
But it is not.
I do like waking up early, before Julia (which is rare), making coffee and sitting down to write. And admittedly, the gray, rainy days make sitting in front of the usually over sunny front-of-the-house window easy on the eyes.
I started a Christmas post late on that day. Intended to be mostly pictures with a few words. When I looked at the result, I laughed at myself. The pictures were of the darling boy. Almost all of them, a few glimpses of Justin, his dad, and Julia but only because the two of them were helping Wilbur unwrap something.
And I thought, what a besotted grandma I have become! Not really like every other grandparent, but like many that I know. Not like my own parents—they had their hands full raising one grandchild and had another three who lived closer than we did and were more to their liking.
process & peace
Another eve. Gray today. My christmas lights, sweet during the dark nights, don’t light up a day time room, even a gray day. I’ve finished the work of the days before—tree decorated, presents bought and wrapped, times for visits and choir and gift opening and dinner set, even cards signed and sealed even though not yet delivered. Yesterday, with only little bits to do, Julia and I drove around to deliver cookies to those who were not where they were expected earlier in the week. We stopped once and chatted and that was good. The car needs packing for this afternoon at Ed’s family, for tonight at choir, for later tonight at Cheshire’s and for tomorrow morning’s gift opening.
And what to anticipate watching someone at 16 months on Christmas? He is all eyes and questions . . tat? tat? with arm outstretched and fingers pointed. Last night, I dreamed that he was walking around the living room, secure and proud of himself. In reality, he is taking a few steps between two sets of arms when he forgets his caution.
He tasted and liked my yearly baking of poppy seed rolls on Friday at lunch. A new person to bake for is my own delight. I can hope that he remember my baking like I remember my grandmother’s Easter bread—white, not moist and perfect with butter.
auntie duties
Julia has not wanted to have much contact with Wilbur since his first few days. Cheshire and I have been patient and have just waited it out. I’ve spent a good deal of my time with Wilbur during the day when Julia has been at her program. When she has spoken negatively about Wilbur, I’ve been firm that he is a permanent member of our family and that I intended to be a good grandma. I’ve offered that she can stay home when we are able to visit together. She has never taken me up on that. For himself, Wilbur is fascinated by the auntie who doesn’t pay him much attention.
On Thursday, Julia and I met Cheshire and Wilbur at the Discovery Museum. In the baby space, Wilbur was making use of practice stairs, plastic animals, and lots of balls, and Julia became interested. I am so happy to see her and Wilbur together. I do believe that they could be good friends.
Chasing Joy 