Small Moment

 

I recently emailed a friend and began a sentence with the phrase "It goes without saying." Even before sending the email, I was pulled back decades to a young boy, an amazing book, and a shared moment in time.

The young boy was my son Ben. He still is my son, of course, only now Ben is 36 and not 9 or 10 or whatever age I am remembering. 

The amazing book was (and also still is) The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. I have referenced it from time to time in this blog, but never in the context of Ben and our shared moments.

I have written before about sharing my love of reading and books with Ben from his earliest days. Over time, as the home dynamics withered around us, reading to him every night before bedtime became a quiet moment of quiet and love and safety. We kept that up well into his middle school years for the comfort of the books and the comfort of one another.

The Phantom Tollbooth was an early share between us. It is a book full of clever puns and literary allusions, and Ben enjoyed them all. We followed Milo on his trip through the Kingdom of Wisdom to bring back Rhyme and Reason, laughing together at times, Ben quiet when the plot took an ominous turn every now and then. 

We did not read it together again, but Ben read it several times on his own. In 2011, when a 50th anniversary edition came out, I bought it and sent it to Ben. 

Of course I did.

So back to the phrase that sent me down a rabbit hole or, more appropriately, through a tollbooth into the lands beyond: "It goes without saying." In Dictionopolis, the king's cabinet members rush Milo to a small wooden wagon so they can get to the royal banquet on time. Milo starts to ask how the wagon is supposed to move, and the Duke of Definition answers.

"Be very quiet," advised the duke, "for it goes without saying."

And indeed it did.

And still does. 

This Year's Gardens, Part 7

 When you're on a roll for overdoing it, why not finish strong? Right?

The Hej garden was too wet yet to till, as I predicted in my last post. But I had plants to get into the ground. The zucchini sprouts, which I had up-potted back in early May, were getting a little tired of hanging around inside:

The zucchini plants looking for wide open spaces many days ago

I knew at some point they were going to go on strike and I'd be back at square one. 

Warren and I talked Sunday (which was also full for both of us, in mostly separate spheres, and on which I also overdid it, albeit not gardening). "You know," I ventured, "the soil in the Hej garden is good enough that I think I am just going to plant it by hand. We'll till it in the fall after adding compost. What do you think?"

Warren didn't hesitate. "Yes."

So Monday morning I trundled a wheelbarrow full of the zucchini trays, the cabbages, and the cauliflower plants, along with a trowel and other assorted items, down to the garden, and started in.

First the cauliflower, after I laid the bricks back in place to delineate the garden: 

Then the cabbages:

Leaving a wide swath between those rows and the zucchini bed, I spaced out the cups to see how the layout worked: 

I planted 20 of the 21; one of the stems snapped in two as I untangled it from another. Why 20 zucchini for a household of two? There are others out there who I am planting for. And I owe some good friends and colleagues some homemade zucchini bread as a heartfelt "thank you." Trust me, it will not go to waste. 

Done!

I had one last gardening task I wanted to complete before cleaning up my tools and boots and putting things to rights: 

Caged! 

By the time I cleaned up all the mess, including getting the mud off the tools and my boots, it was late morning. But it was done. 

Gardening is a summer-long affair, but the hardest part of it for me is over. I already watered both gardens this morning; one zucchini looks a bit nibbled on, but that's par for the course. I still have basil to sow; that's an easy task. I have a lot of muddy (now dried) boot prints to clean off the deck and patio; that will take a bit more effort and may wait until tomorrow. Or not. It is Concert Week, after all.

The garden is in. Let's see how it grows. 

This Year's Gardens, Part 6

 Let's just say I overdid it. Knowingly, mind you, but overdid it all the same. 

One of the many realities of having a persistent, progressive cancer is that, to paraphrase Atul Gawande, the night brigade is always bringing down the perimeter defenses. My night brigade has been busy for almost 18 years. (And it is helped by the amyloids, the terrorists in the picture. The amyloids don't partner with the myeloma, but they sure help bring down those defenses.) One of the areas of increasing breach is the decline of my stamina and physical capacity.

So back to where I started: I. Overdid. It.

All week had been sunny and dry. I had purchased plants earlier in the week at my favorite local farm market; those need to get planted sooner than later. Some were going in the Kitchen garden, some in the Hej garden. 

And only one of us, me, was available to make it happen. Or at least push the process along. 

This month has been full to overflowing on Warren's schedule. And we're not even at Concert Week: this coming week is Concert Week. He has had workweeks of more than 70 hours since mid-April. He also plays in the Mansfield Symphony; that group just finished their season last night, which meant Warren was gone until 11:30 p.m. Thursday and Friday nights, then out yesterday from 12:30 p.m. until 11:30 p.m. for dress rehearsal and the performance. He is performing this afternoon with our local community chorus. And even with those performances and rehearsals going on, he still was working on our Symphony; he called me from Mansfield during the pre-concert layover to discuss some wording on a Facebook post.

So for us, it was not a matter of him not wanting to help me; Warren simply wasn't available. If anything was going to get done in the garden, I was the only one to do it. 

We had tilled the Hej garden earlier this month, and thanks to several rainy days. it had sprouted a variety of thistles and other vegetation. Even with it being more amenable to tilling, I knew those weeds had to come out the hard way, by hand; a tiller does great things, but it will not reach thistle roots unless you till way, way deep. So Saturday morning, my trusty garden seat and trowel in hand, I sat out there weeding the Hej garden thistle by thistle.

One and a half hours.

My dad and I had made plans for tilling his garden Saturday afternoon. Warren, en route to Mansfield, dropped me and the tiller off at Dad's house.  Now, remember, my dad is almost 89. I am 66 chronologically, but probably more like 76 because of years of treatment and cancer (that damn night brigade). We made a fine pair. 

Two hours. Now there were a few breaks, including when my brother Michel, who I have not seen in person since, I think, pre-Covid, brought back Dad's pickup truck. But even Mike, who can talk all day, was gone in 15 minutes so he could get back home.

So, two hours. Dad did much of the tilling, and I did all of the raking of the churned up debris (a lot of Creeping Charlie) and hauling the buckets to dump at the back of the property. I did some of the tilling, which gave me a chance to get a better feel for the tiller. 

It was not backbreaking work, but it was solid labor. Like weeding the Hej garden, only more so. 

Dad dropped me back off at home and helped me unload the tiller and the extension cords. I regrouped with a pitcher of water, then a very early supper. (Supper? Okay, a half ham sandwich.) While I ate, I thought long and hard about what way to go next.

One arrow pointed to REST. The other arrow pointed to TILL THE KITCHEN GARDEN. (The fine print on that arrow read "Yes, you are overdoing it, but you know that.")

Guess which arrow won? 

Over two and a half hours later, including cleanup, the Kitchen garden was tilled and in the early planting stages.  I dug up butterfly weed starts (some leftovers that got overlooked last year) and moved them to a front garden before I started. Then I tilled; the afternoon work with Dad stood me in good stead. A short break, then I turned to the plants. By the end, all of the tomato plants (12) and all the pepper plants (9) went into the ground. 

An aside: at the end of last season, I wrote in my garden notes "Fewer tomatoes next year." Let's just say I ignored that. 

I was dirty and exhausted and satisfied beyond satisfied. A shower, a bowl of cereal, another pitcher of water, and a good book helped me wait out the time until Warren got back home. About the time he called to say he was headed home (Mansfield is a little over an hour away), I heard something tapping on the windows.

It was raining.  Not hard, but steadily. 

Today is bright and sunny. There was enough rain last night that the Hej garden needs to dry before we till it. I'm hope to do that by midweek, even with it being Concert Week. Having spent every last penny and dime of my energy yesterday, I don't mind the break.

But it was worth every cent. 

After tilling

After planting 

 

This Year's Gardens, Part 5

 I had grand plans for the garden front this weekend. We'd get compost, we'd till the gardens, I'd get the zucchini planted, and on and on and...

Yeah.

It rained Friday. It rained Saturday until well into the afternoon. 

Too wet to till.

Sunday, both Warren and I were in a slump all morning for a number of reasons: his workload, my workload (volunteer, but still), computer problems (mine), health issues (mine, obviously), blah blah blah. At one point (the low point on the computer problem), I put my head down to my desk and started crying, which is not like me. We were both struggling.

But Sunday was also glorious, sunshine and blue skies.

I looked at the brilliant day outside. "Why don't we at least sit outside on the deck and enjoy the sun?" Warren shrugged. Okay. 

It was better sitting outside on the deck steps. But we were still struggling. Warren halfheartedly suggested we go out for ice cream. I halfheartedly shrugged. Then I sat up.

"We have ice cream! Let's make sundaes and have them for lunch!" 

Now we were starting to move. Sundaes for lunch! Sunshine! blue skies! 

The sundaes were enough to push us both a bit. We took the deck furniture out of its winter tarps and set up the deck. Progress! Then my sons called for Mother's Day, first Ben, then Sam. Joy! More energy as I sat in the sun and talked with them. 

After finishing the second call, I said to Warren, "Now I'm ready to garden." I walked down to the shed in back and brought up the four planters I scored for free three years ago and arranged them on the patio. More progress.

I couldn't till the gardens, but I could get the garden started. 

With Warren's help, the planters went from this

to this:

From front to back: Bibb lettuce, Bibb lettuce, Finger carrots (a small carrot), and Paris Romaine.

At this point, Warren felt he was ready to go into his shop and make some progress on crotale stands. I decided I felt good enough to transplant the globe thistle I had sprouted earlier. I had four ice cream cartons of sprouted seeds (well, three hearty ones and one which didn't do a whole lot); I knew where I wanted them.

I spent the next hour under those blue, sunny skies planting. Two went in the back flower bed (one of those two being the one that underperformed). How great that I was deep in the daylily bed?

That blue gardening seat? Best garden purchase ever.

One carton went out front in in the bed anchored by the redbud. Earlier this spring I had relocated the agastache (hyssop) to the back flower bed, because it wasn't doing well with the redbud. So there was extra room in that bed, allowing for the globe thistle to go up front and not under the redbud.

For the record, the ice cream containers made excellent sprouting containers. They have depth, so you don't have to worry about them outgrowing the container too soon. To plant, all I had to do was cut down the side, peel the side walls off, and then slide the seeds/soul off the bottom into the hole I had already dug.

One container mid-peel on the wall. 

All told, I probably spent an hour and a half outside. It was glorious. Warren came out of his shop from time to time to check on me out of love, out of watchfulness (besides the truck analogy, Tim also last week said it is time to step back from doing so much), out of pleasure that the slumped morning had turned so spectacularly (he too was making progress in his shop). 

And that, my friends, is where the gardens stand as of this morning. 

More Books, More Thoughts

 A few weeks ago, I blogged about reading Truck by John Jerome, learning that I had read a later work of his, Stone Work, and then my connecting the dots across the years. As I commented, I like Jerome's style and his approaches to life and writing. I then checked out his On Turning Sixty-Five. Subtitled Notes From the Field, it contains Jerome's reflections on hitting that milestone, on looking ahead to the next decade or so, on aging, and on enjoying life. His older brother had died at age 64 several years earlier, and Jerome juxtaposed his brother's early death against his own hope of attaining 80 or older. 

Early in the work, he writes of making plans with his wife for canoe trips to celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary and to explore northern Canada, noting that they "began thinking harder about how we were spending our days...The truth was, we could begin to see an end to larks like that, and figured we'd better stock up on them." 

Jerome was anticipating the physical hurdles in such trips as he and his wife aged. But I, the reader, knew what he did not know. He was not going to make it to 70, dying at age 69 of aggressive lung cancer. But he doesn't know that. In my commonplace book (saving the quote), I wrote "reading this book is heartbreaking at times because I know what is coming but he doesn't."

Picking up the pieces of my heart from Jerome, I reread Underland by the peerless Robert Macfarlane. I had first read it when it came out in 2019 and had captured several pieces of it for my commonplace book at the time. On rereading it, I went back and marked the pages in my commonplace book to compare what moved me then versus now. As I reread, when I found a passage that moved me, I would look back to 2019. And guess what? Yes, I had captured them then too. All of them. Many of those quotes had to do with how humans have used the ground under the surface of the earth: to bury treasure, to store relics, to bury one another. 

Yesterday was my treatment day with Tim, my oncologist of almost 18 years. My cancer stays stable, but persistent, meaning that the medical world cannot get it into remission. That means that the amyloidosis, my concurrent disease, continues to flourish. As we talked about how I feel physically and mentally and emotionally, Tim for the first time ever used his "truck rolling downhill" analogy with me. 

The analogy is simple enough. With a progressive, incurable cancer, the disease is comparable to a truck parked at the top of a slope, but in neutral and with no brake set. The truck rocks a little and then starts down the slope, gaining speed as it goes. From a doctor/patient standpoint, all we can do is slow but not stop it.

I knew the truck analogy well from friendships with two other patients of his, both now dead; each of them reached that point with their respective cancers that Tim talked about the truck. But for me this was a first. It was one of those moments where I realized that while I knew that the day would come when the truck would appear, I did not really know it until Tim said it out loud.

Which brought to mind quotes from two books, one that I shared, voice breaking, with Warren, and one that I used last fall in a talk about death and dying. The one I read out loud to Warren came from The End of Your Life Book Club, Will Schwalbe's memoir about the books he and his mother read and shared together in the last months of her life as she dealt with the cancer that was killing her. Schwabe writes of her oncologist, at the next to the last appointment, knowing the death was not far away, asking his mother if she could hug her. "It's not a very hopeful sign when your oncologist gives you a goodbye hug." He softens that with writing that the hug was "two people comforting each other...before one left on a long trip to a distant land."

I have not had a farewell hug from Tim yet, but that day is out there.

The other quote, which washed over me as I sit here typing this draft at way too early an hour of the day, was from When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalinithi's memoir about dying: "Before my cancer was diagnosed, I knew that someday I knew that someday I would die, but I didn't know when. After the diagnosis, I knew that someday I knew that someday I would die, but I didn't know when. But now I knew it acutely."

I have known since that long ago diagnosis that I am dying, not metaphorically, not philosophically, but actually and in real time. Tim saying out loud the truck analogy yesterday (and it does not escape my sense of humor at the universe that this post started with a book titled Truck) was just an acute reminder.

As I sift through these emotions, as I read these books, I am reminded of yet another quote (yes, also in one of my commonplace books): "Books can break your heart, but they will never leave you." (The Lost Chapters: Reclaiming My Life One Book at a Time" by Leslie Schwartz.)

Books, books, books. How grateful I am for them for never leaving me.

This Year's Gardens, Part 4

The globe thistle is sprouting! 

 

While the weather is still making up its mind as to whether it is really, truly Spring, we are certainly having more days pointing that way. Looking at my garden journal from last year, it was May 15 before I planted most of the garden, although I was already eating lettuce from some volunteers in the prior year's patch (none this year). Getting the beds ready and watching the seeds inside certainly make sense this time of year.

And the seeds inside, at least most of them, have not disappointed. The globe thistle I gathered from the bed down the street? It came up in profusion in three of the four cartons. And the zucchini has gone wild in its little greenhouse; I am hoping I can keep it reined in there before getting it into the garden outside. Worst case scenario, I will up-pot them into empty yogurt containers to hold them for another week or so. (The western scrub sunflowers? Nothing. Nothing.)

And the zucchini! 

The tiller

I spent much of April 22 and some of April 23 doing a hard weeding by hand of the kitchen garden. It wasn't until April 23 that I finally got my electric tiller unboxed and put together.  That was easy enough. Using it, however, was (still is) a learning curve. I got better as I tilled longer, but clearly I am a novice. I did the kitchen garden, the smaller of the two, with Warren offering suggestions from time to time.  

Yesterday was warm and sunny and windy. Warren suggested that we both take a break from the household demands and till the Hej garden, the larger garden. It had been Concert Week and we were both on overload all week. I was exhausted and not feeling well, and the tears came rushing up. "I can't till today," I said. "There just isn't enough of me."

"No, I'll till," said Warren. "You can direct and help with the smaller things."

 The Hej garden was a mess; I had only cleaned it roughly last fall. The open compost bins built by the previous owners needed structural attention; Warren and Dave (who owns the property) spent some time discussing those issues. The open compost bin also contains a commercial plastic one, which Warren dug out and turned so it could be used. (Oooh, a compost bin! My own compost!) Then he turned to the tilling of the garden.

The Hej garden is larger. It is also a much wetter garden because of its location (on a downslope) and drainage issues that weren't there years ago. The soil was heavy and dark. After a few attempts with the tiller, its blades were caked with mud and weeds. 

The Hej Garden Before

Warren was undeterred. He got his mower out and mowed the weeds down, then brought out the yard de-thatcher/scarifier he bought late last year. It too soon had its share of mud and weeds clogging it, but he got it through the garden.

Warren bringing in the heavy equipment

As for me, I took up and cleaned off the bricks that delineate the two unfenced sides of the garden. And, no surprise, unclogged the blades of the tiller and the de-thatcher. I'll put the bricks back in place after we finish tilling. I'm glad Warren stuck with me and encouraged me to come out to the garden, stepping in where my physical capacity was lacking. I was tired when we came in, but delighted by the time in the sun and the dirt and the smell of green. 

Pulling up the bricks until all the tilling is done. That's my glove, not a detached hand.

By Saturday after next, my goal is to get a load of compost for both gardens and get it tilled in. That will be May 14, which puts me on track with last year. During that week, I will go to my local farm market and buy plants. And somewhere in there I will take the tiller out to my dad's house and help him till a small garden.

For now, though, the garden tilling is started. 

The Kitchen Garden

The Hej Garden After 

When I talked with my son Ben yesterday, we talked about their garden plans. He said they were planting "only one" zucchini plant this year, but lots of tomatoes. Like me, he and Alix discovered that the best tomatoes are the ones from the garden. He said they would not plant peppers this year; they had concluded that their homegrown ones were not superior to the store ones, and were a lot more work. He mentioned there would be herbs in the garden.

Unlike Ben, I will plants lots of zucchini. We are just finishing our 2021 stash in the freezer. We will have basil, but I don't grow other herbs. Pesto is one thing; dealing with the other herbs is another. And while I noted in my 2021 garden notes that I would plant "fewer" tomatoes this summer, my resolve is weakening as I think of the joy of a fresh tomato. 

Time will tell.