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.

Lock, Stock & Barrel

Well, the houses are sold. It went much faster than I thought. Within two days of each other I received offers on both properties. I countered. They accepted. We had the closings a week apart. The houses are gone. Weird, weird, weird feeling. The days leading up to the closings were pretty surreal. It was crunch time. Time to for real empty the houses. Nothing left behind. I rented a dumpster, enlisted my brother and nephew and had at it. While they cleared out the garage and barn, I made the last runs to Goodwill. It took two days and everyone worked their butts off and it got done. They looked bigger afterwards. I had a few moments to walk around Moms house before I locked the door for the last time. I was making sure we hadn't missed anything, but I really wanted to say goodbye to the house. I grew up there. From the time I was four years old until I got married when I was 23, with brief stints outside during college. It was strange to think I would almost certainly never set foot inside that building again. As I went from room to room, I tried to conjure up memories of things I had done or seen there. Lots of memories. By the time I reached the last room I was feeling pretty OK about leaving it behind. Maybe that's what they mean by "closure". Whatever it was, I'm glad I did it. It seemed respectful of the time invested in creating the memories. That's all our past really is; memories. If you're lucky you have pictures, but for most stuff memories are all we have and ever will have. I'm glad I can still remember.

The Snow Man

Tonight I got my snowblower out for the first time this season. Mother nature has thankfully not seen fit to really sock it to our part of Michigan yet, but enough snow had accumulated over the past several days to make it worthwhile to retrieve the snowblower from the depths of the garage and get it out on the street. Snowblowing is a manly sort of activity. Any activity that starts with mixing oil and gasoline is manly in my book. Basic, elemental type stuff. The possibility of explosions and burning down the garage. Excellent! I really wouldn't want to burn down the garage. The lawnmower lives in there and the lawnmower wouldn't like it. I don't think the lawnmower likes the snowblower very much, being from different seasons and all, but I digress. Once the snowblower is all fueled up we're ready to go and that's when the transformation starts. It starts with the first pull on the starter cord (no electric start for this born in Michigan, raised on pine needles, can drink Vernors without sneezing, native son. No sir!) The snowblower roars to life and announces to the entire neighborhood (and I mean ENTIRE neighborhood -This sucker is loud) that the snow situation is now under control. A feeling of invincibility comes over you; a pure testosterone rush. (I don't think it matters if you're male or female) You are suddenly Lord of the Snow, The King of the Hill and Vanquisher of Drifts. Feel my power and tremble! Snow becomes the enemy and you are Samuel L Jackson. You cop the attitude ( or 'tude for the more hip) "I want this motherf***ing snow off this motherf***ing driveway! So you conquer the driveway. Then you subdue the walk. Then you beat the sidewalk into submission. Then you look for other worlds to conquer. The neighbors walk. The neighbors sidewalk. The neighbors driveway. Then you start thinking "Hey, I've got plenty of gas, I should do the whole block!" I have, I admit, in the throes of this frenzy, snowblown my drive, walk and sidewalk, the neighbors drive, walk and sidewalk (both sides of my house) and then finished up on the rest of the sidewalk from corner to corner. If I hadn't run out of gas, I probably would have kept going. I swear if you live in Michigan and don't ski, this is the best reason to stay here in the winter. It's visceral sensation, an affirmation that the season can be beaten (or in this case, thrown) back from your door. So suit up warriors, dress warmly, fire up your machines and head out into glory. Just be sure to look up once and awhile to make sure your surroundings are still familiar. No sense getting lost.

Toothpicks and Memories

I've been spending more time at Moms house the last few days. I finally felt it was time to contact a realtor about selling the house so I called one in the area and met him there on Tuesday. It was surprisingly easy to get going. I just signed a bunch of papers and gave them a set of keys. They were quick. The next day there was a big for sale sign in the front yard. Now I really have to get going on emptying out the contents. It was weird when we first started parceling out Mom's stuff amongst myself, my brother and my sister, but it gradually became routine. Now that we are past all of the major stuff; cars, furniture, appliances, we are down to the personal level. This is strange. Examining anothers life at the detail level spawns strange thoughts. Why, for instance, did Mom have 17 tweezers. They were everywhere. In the bathroom, the hall closet, the bedroom, the drawer in the table in the living room. And emery boards. Apparently, though she never talked about it, she was deprived basic manicure supplies as a child. It's kind of funny. I lived in that house for nearly twenty years and never noticed this while I was there. I guess one does not pick up each and every thing that belongs to someone else while they are still around. It's only when you have to examine each item and decide "keep" or "not keep" that you get this view of a persons life. Why did she keep this thing? I will never know. I will never know the memories that each item invoked whenever she looked at them. I think that is part of what pains me to make these decisions for these types of things. What did Mom see in this that I can't? Is this precious, or just some junk that she probably had forgotten she even had? Was it a gift from a grandchild or niece or nephew? Did Dad buy it for her for her birthday or as a surprise? Was it Dads? Was it even hers or was it borrowed from someone else? Perhaps it belonged to Grandma. I fear that I am throwing away someone's memories. Someone's life. The little things that defined them. Things that will have no meaning to the next owner and that seems terribly sad. Sad because I wish I knew the memory. However if I did, it would be a hundred times harder to make the decisions I have to make. I can't keep everything. I don't want everything. I have kept plenty. I guess I would like the items new home to know something about them, not just be anonymous pieces for sale in a consignment shop somewhere. But how much of a story can there really be behind 17 tweezers? I'm probably just a little overwhelmed by it. People amass a lot of stuff in the course of a lifetime. Consider how many pictures you have. Consider how many hairbrushes you have. How many toothpick holders you own. How many spoons. After I've been at it for awhile, I switch into express mode. "Ok, here's the consignment box, here's the Salvation Army box, and here's the box for the curb. Let's fill'em up." But that's when I'm sure I'm being hasty. I brought home six teaspoons yesterday. I mean the kind used for stirring tea. The long handled variety. They weren't particularly special. Made in Japan. Stainless steel. Ordinary. I just thought they were cool. I have no use for them. Someday, when someone is looking at the contents of my life, they are going to wonder if I had a secret tea fetish. What a cruel trick to play on your decendants. Start laying in little caches of bizzare stuff for them to find after you're gone. "Dad had 30 cribbage boards! Why? He didn't play cribbage. Neither did Mom. I never once heard him talk about cribbage. Should we keep them?" I guess some things will always be a mystery. That's part of the sadness of loosing someone. No more time to ask "Why so many tweezers Mom? How many toothpick holders did you think you needed? Who gave you the blue bowl?" I guess I can make up my own stories now. "Mom was raised in a time when nailcare was only for royalty and she vowed that one day she would have as many nailclippers as a queen would have. And she realized her dream." Perhaps then I can part with them, knowing that she had her time with them and now it's someone else's turn. And then I can really say goodbye.