Born On The Fourth Of July

previously published in Ponderings

The Fourth of July is one of my favorite holidays and one of my least favorites. The reason for this celebratory schizophrenia can be summed up in two words “Holiday Birthday!” (the exclamation point doesn’t count as a word). You see, my own birthday is on July 4th, the day we celebrate not only the signing of the Declaration of Independence, but we also celebrate that I am now, officially, one year older. Oh, it didn’t used to bother me. When you’re a kid it’s pretty cool. Big party, picnics, carnivals, parades, fireworks. All just for you, or so you think. After 5 years old, it becomes pretty obvious that the party is not all for you, but it’s still fun, you’re older and more “grown up” and you still get presents. I guess I would rather have the July 4th holiday for my birthday than say, Christmas. My brothers birthday is in December, so I think he always felt that Mom and Dad saved the ”good stuff” for Christmas, so even being close to Christmas is dangerous. The “up” side of a holiday birthday once you’re out in the working world, is that for most professions, you almost always have your birthday off from work. And it is unlikely to snow on my birthday, another plus. And I still get presents. And my kids like the celebration. And my wife likes the celebration (her birthday is on the traditional Labor Day, hardly the same). So I guess it’s not so bad after all, except maybe the getting older and more “grown up” part. Could have been Arbor Day, or Flag Day, or Valentines Day. So, I guess I’ll take what I have and be thankful for it. All of you have a pleasant July 4th Holiday. Light a few sparklers in celebration of our country's birthday and remember that one of them is always for me, no matter what my brother says.

Kicking Buds, Taking Names

While the female half of my family was touring France, I decided to surprise them by planting some flowers around the house. This may not sound like a big deal, but understand that we have been going to plant flowers around the house for most of the seventeen years that we have lived here. It either didn't happen or the plants were bought and then didn't make it into the ground in time to save their wretched lives. So planting flowers was a big deal. Of course, I knew nothing. I just wanted flowers, I didn't want to do research. Get flowers, put in ground, reap complements. That was the sum total of my planning. I went up to our local nursery, looked around for about twenty minutes and determined that I had no clue what to do. I fessed up to the greenhouse owner and she helped me pick out a few flats after grilling me about my property. "Do you get full sun all day or do you have partial shade?" she asked as my eyes grew wide and I mumbled out something really intelligent like "Mostly". In the end, I came home with four flats of assorted annuals, two planters for the front porch, two petunia planters for the railings and two geranium hanging baskets. Now about $200.00 poorer I happily loaded up the car and headed home, expecting to plant everything in an hour or so and be done with it. Boy, was I in for a rude shock. It turns out that crawling around on the ground with a spade in your hand digging holes is a lot tougher than it looks. I had sore knees and wrists and infinite respect for gardeners everywhere who do this kind of thing for "fun". I managed to dig the holes and insert the plants in a couple of sessions of at least a couple of hours. I could have probably finished it all in three or four hours, but the knees weren't having it. I was very pleased. They looked great. I watered everything and marveled at how well the new Mr. Greenthumbs had managed. Of course this was only the beginning. My carefully prepared soil into which I had lovingly placed my tender charges was ripe for weeds and they took off immediately. In a couple of days of diligent watering the weeds were outstripping the new plants by leaps and bounds. Back down on my knees I went and started pulling and pulling and pulling. It became a kind of religion for me for about a week. If I stepped outside for anything, I made a quick trip around to the flowers to check for new weeds. It paid off, the flowers are virtually weed free, but I still have my back up. When the ladies returned from France, they were appropriately surprised. I was a hero. I was Mr Greenthumbs. Flush with success, now I really have gotten on the bandwagon. I'm looking at the backyard and thinking perennials. I went out and bought a phlox and a larkspur (pink and blue respectively) and can only imagine where to go from here. Of course I have no plan. I didn't before so why should this be any different. There is a big difference in planting in the front of the house and the back of the house and it isn't what you'd think. It has nothing to do with soil or light or anything artistic. It has to do with our dog. The backyard is fenced, so that is where the dog is. It isn't even the concern that he might dig up the plants or pee on them or anything like that. It has to do with his personality and the fact that he is a laborador retriever. Laboradors live to retrieve. That is all they want to do. If I go outside the dog is right there in a flash because going outside means playing with the B.A.L.L. We actually have to spell it around him because if he hears you say ball, he will pester and whine endlessly to go out and play. So I go outside to plant my new flowers, charged up to be Mr Greenthumbs in the back part of the house with visions of restfull, stunning gardens to come and the dog thinks its B.A.L.L. time. I start digging. "No we are not playing, go away." The ball finds itself at my feet. I pick it up and toss it away. "No we are not playing, go away." The ball reappears. I pick it up and toss it on the deck. "No we are not playing, go away." I dig one more shovel full of dirt. The ball appears in the hole. I pick it up, look at the dog and say "No we are not playing, go away." He thinks this is great fun and keeps bringing me the ball. We continue like this until I finish digging the holes. I could probably have taken him back inside, but then he would just whine inside and make everyone in there miserable. I decide to ignore him. This rarely works. Now I have to place the plants in the holes and refill around them. This means getting back down on my knees, the same knees that learned their lesson in the front yard and reminded me that, yes, this is why you better hurry up and get this finished. Of course now I am at "dog level" My dog thinks this means I want him to jump on me. I do not. "Get off of me you idiot. Go away. Leave me alone I'm busy. Where's your ball?" When he hears that he is off like a shot and I hastily finish my planting. Upright again and not digging holes, I reassert my dominance and lock the dog in the backyard while I get the watering cans. He brings the ball to the gate. "Do you want to get watered?" I warn him. He gets the message. Once I had finished and put away all the implements of gardening, I looked over my handywork and was again very pleased. This could work, even with the dog. Mr Greenthumbs is off to a good start, plan or no plan.

Ode To Chair

Today I met my match, at least for awhile. Our desk chair had seen better days. Days far in the past. The upholstery was ripped and worn, the back loose and squeeky, two of the wheels were duct taped in place to keep them from falling off. The wheels with the duct tape prevented the chair from rolling in certain directions, mostly the direction I wanted to go. This then became the routine of "hopping" the chair forward to get close enough to the desk to reach the keyboard. We put up with this for a long, long time. Today I broke down and purchased a new chair at Staples. While one is in Staples looking at the chairs, they are all lined up, ready to be tested. When you make your selection, they bring you a box. A large box. A box with chair parts in it. A box with chair parts in it and a single diagram for assembly. Now, I am a college graduate. I have a couple of degrees and work with computers each day. I was not intimidated by the idea of assembling a simple desk chair. I should have been. I should have been forewarned when the single page of assembly instructions said "Make sure all parts marked with an arrow are pointing in the same direction". I started to assemble the chair with confidence. I immediately put the base on the seat backwards. "Remember: Arrows in the same direction". Ok, I'll remember. Unscrew all the screws (4), reverse and reassemble. Chastised, I started to put on the first armrest. I looked at it first. Tried to get a feel for the assembly process, to visualize the completed chair. I put it on backwards. I tightened all four screws down as hard as I could, took a step back to admire my handiwork, and it was wrong. Totally wrong. It was obvious. The visualization had been a lie. I'm good at this! What is happening here? Again: Unscrew all the screws (4), reverse and reassemble. Damn. The rest of the assembly seemed to go pretty well. I put the seat (with arms) on the base without incident. I then took the last piece, the back of the chair, and screwed it to the arms. Four screws, four screw caps pressed on. No problems. I pushed the completed chair back to admire it and damn it to hell, the back was on backwards. It was laughable. I laughed. Insane laughter, yes, but I was laughing. Laughing at the futility of it all. Laughing at what a complete and utter moron I appeared to be. Resigned, I pulled off the caps, unscrewed the screws (4) and reversed and reassembled. With the chair now completed (correctly) I took stock of my situation. Perhaps I was too tired to have attempted this apparently arduous task at all. Perhaps I should have been wearing my glasses. Perhaps I was in too much of a rush. Perhaps chairs are not my strong suit. Whatever. The really sad thing is that I bought two of these chairs and I still have to assemble the other one. God help me.