Poison Ivy

My childhood home was a modest affair … a 3 bedroom, 1 bath rancher, that housed two parents, two kids, and at least three dogs at any given time. What set the house apart was the yard. We had a great yard growing up, large enough for a couple of fruit trees (apple and peach), an above ground pool, and forts. It also housed my mother’s garden.

Although, garden is not really a very appropriate description for it. More like a vegetable and fruit farmette. A field of food, if you will. On roughly a quarter portion of our half-acre homestead, my mother set up shop, growing green beans, potatoes, radishes, cucumbers, squash, tomatoes galore, leaf lettuce, green onions, carrots, strawberries, and at one time, even corn. If it could be canned, this woman grew it.

My mother’s two green thumbs are the stuff of legend. She could probably plant a dish of eggplant parmesan and get a perfect crop. Have a sick plant? Take it to her… in no time it would be flourishing. Kids, pets, and plants. My mother spoiled them all. And, at least where the garden was concerned, the rest of us reaped the rewards. What didn’t end up immediately on our dinner plates was canned, turned into jam or sauce, and saved for later in the year.

Whether it’s the southern Appalachia in her or just pure genius, I truly think this woman could do it all. Gardening, DIY crafts (long before the era of YouTube tutorials), cooking, refinishing furniture, sewing a full wardrobe of clothes … you name it, she was amazing at it.  I guess I always assumed I would take after her in some ways. Cooking? Yeah, that I’ve got figured out. Crafts? Eh, not so much. Sewing clothes? Blech. Patterns confuse me more than Astrophysics. Pets? Now, that’s where I’m definitely following in her footsteps.

But plants? The jury is still out on that one. I’ve raised kids after all. Keeping a plant alive? You’d think I could do this one small thing. I mean, honestly, how hard can it be to take care of something that eats sunlight?

Outside plants – not counting vegetables and fruits (don’t ask!), I can grow those with ease. Columbines, Ditch Lilies (Day Lily to all you northerners), Coreopsis – all thrive under my watchful eye. The fact that these plants look to mother nature for sustenance and moral support is beside the point, I tell you.

It’s the indoor plants I have an issue with. Cacti collapse in on themselves at my loving hand. Apparently, I water them too much. I know they’re a desert plant, but I just can’t help myself!  Succulents soon lose their thick, glossy leaves under my ardent ministrations. Ferns dry up as if their leaves had caught fire … I still don’t know what I’m doing wrong there. African Violets are best left to others as none have survived a stint in my home.

I have one plant that has lived; if not thriving, it’s at least growing, and I’ve had it for quite some time. I hope I’m not jinxing myself by saying that. If it’s doing well, it’s only because it is a hardy plant hellbent on survival. It’s surely nothing I’ve done. So, there is that.

Deciding to dip a toe once more into the realm of flora guardianship, I picked up a plant right before Halloween. She was an impulse buy at the local grocery store, to be honest. Her name is Penelope. Penelope Pumpkin. You see, she resides in a pumpkin, so the name is appropriate.  I’m sure you’ve seen a hundred Penelopes around and never gave them a second thought. But at the time, I said to myself: “now here, here is a plant I can handle!”

What is Penelope, you ask?  Well, you know those air plants? The ones that are supposedly impossible to kill? They don´t need dirt or sunlight or anything really. They don´t even have a root system. I’m actually not entirely sure they’re “alive” in the traditional sense because they are so incredibly low maintenance.  Just spritz them once every equinox with a bit of water and they will thrive. “Oh, my toddler kept one alive in her room” I once heard someone say. There. That’s level zero. Nobody can fail with an air plant. Right?

Spoiler alert: I can.

I – a capable, full-grown adult – killed an air plant. That’s right, person with the gardening toddler, I can do even less than your genius spawn can.

It started out great – the cute little thing just sat there, not bothering anyone, lighting up a tiny corner of my desk with its little life force. Over time, my quiet little Penelope began to shrivel. The ends of her frilly tendrils started to look like burnt cat whiskers. I tried to revive her, but no amount of CPR or motivational quotes could bring her back to vitality. My little immortal plant had met its mortality.

That’s me, folks. The plant murderer. My mother must be so proud.

Penelope in better days. May she rest in peace. 

 

Science – 1, Mother – 0

I apologize for yet another round of radio silence on my part. To say this past week has been crazy is the biggest understatement of all understatements.

My family thrives on chaos and stress apparently, and, never to be outdone by my kids it would seem, my mother has done her share this past week to give me even more grey hairs. I really should have taken stock in Clairol back when my kids were growing up. Who knew my mother would eventually add to my investment regret.

Anywho, my dear little 75-year-old mother decided to test the physics of gravity last weekend … it seems she really wasn’t convinced in the science of it all. To that end, she tried to take a flying leap in her kitchen and instead just fell, like a lead balloon. While she called it an experiment for the greater good, I think walking simply isn’t her forte.

Instead of calling 911, she called me. I guess she just wanted me to join the party or perhaps she thought I’d be the one to help her suppress the results of her ill-fated experiment. Ever on the science-y side of things, I figured this was a job for the superheroes of the medical field. Da-da-da-dahhh!

After a quick ambulance ride and a not so quick fun-filled visit to the ER, I brought her home to her comfy recliner and there she sat for a few days. Or at least, that’s where I tried to keep her without actually tying her down (I was told that was elderly abuse).

It’s been a few days now and while she’s still sore and sporting some really very interesting bruises, she’s on the mend, I’m glad to say. Meanwhile, I’m back at my place content to regularly check in to make sure she’s still upright.

I just got a phone call from her this afternoon. She signed up for dance lessons. God help me. I can feel the grey hairs sprouting as I write.

 

Gaming Grandma

Once upon a time, kids played innocent video games that had, as their selling point, learning and teachable moments embedded in the fun.  LeapFrog was one of these; a creative, book-oriented electronic game whose only purpose was to teach our kids how to count, how to read, and how to sing very annoying songs. My kids were no exception.  We leaped with the best frogs.

Next came computer games, like Club Penguin, Toontown, and Jumpstart.  These were adorable games where the kids learned to chat in controlled phrases, and they began to experience their first taste of competition.  The next logical step was Pokémon and Naruto, where competition, chatting, and teamwork became part of everyday life.

From there, my kids jumped into League of Legends, where the sole purpose of the game was to annihilate other players.  Yay, progress.

When my son was living at home, I would hear the muffled thuds, the not-so-muffled thuds, the cursing, the banging, and occasionally the overturned chair coming from the sanctity of his room.  I wondered, but no way was I going into a teenage boy’s room alone; God only knows what science projects he had brewing under his bed or in his dirty laundry hamper.   It was hard to tell if he needed a new hobby, more practice, or better friends.  My daughter wasn’t much better, only her game frustrations were much quieter and spilled out to the dinner table in the form of dirty looks and grumbling.

I went through the usual parental worrying.  Do they spend too much time online?  Are they secretly chatting with some 60-year-old pervert in a pink tutu in this multi-player game?  Do they need to get out and socialize with the real world?  And most importantly, will they end up living in my basement into their forties?

Obviously, my kids got their video chops from their cool mom, right?  Yeah, not so much.  I don’t like video games, they make me anxious and I get stressed when I play.  I blame Milton Bradley’s Perfection. While not a video game, it was a battery-operated panic attack. Besides, life is like a video game, with adventures to be found at the grocery store, the freeway, and, occasionally, the kitchen when I try a new recipe.

So, if not me, where did they get this video game aptitude from?  Well, look one generation back, and there it is.  Thanks, mom.

Oh yes, you read that right.  My mom, sweetest lady, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, the picture of innocence.  My mom was a pro gamer before gaming was cool.

First it was Atari. That was too easy for her. Asteroids, tennis, and pong?   It was like shooting fish in a barrel for my mother. Come to think of it, she had that game too.

The next level of her addiction came with new heroes, courtesy of Sega Genesis.  Round, prickly ones named Sonic.  Sonic ushered in some of his closest friends, including Zelda, who rode in on the wave that was Super Nintendo.  The original Zelda, thank you very much. Kids think they know Zelda, but you’ve never played Zelda until you’ve played it on the original gaming platform, in full glorious side-scrolling wonder with its tinny music and recycled backgrounds.

Then, hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen … along came Mario Brothers.  My mother immediately forgot everything else in the world as she threw herself into mastering this game.  My family frequently went without eating for days at a time, no clean clothes, up to our ankles in our own game, “Chase the Dust Bunnies.”

Of course, that’s not true, but she was completely obsessed with the game.  I still remember when she hit the high score or won the game, whichever the goal was.  She left the game on the entire day as proof and if I recall correctly, she took a picture of the tv screen for good measure because she was afraid no one would believe her. I like to think that the birth of my brother and me were the happiest days of her life, but I tell you, I’m not so sure.

Once she conquered the world of supersonic mammals, Italian plumbers, and valiant quests, she went for a more maternal distraction because, apparently, a real family wasn’t enough stress. She went full on geek and got herself a Tamagotchi critter, which I think was a dog.  She even took it camping and on vacation, so it wouldn’t die.  I have no idea how long it survived, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was years. Hell, she may still have it in a closet somewhere, secretly feeding it and dutifully cleaning up its little digital poops.

I often wonder, does my complete inability to play video games reflect poorly on her?  Or did her gaming ability soar straight through my DNA without passing GO and hit my kids squarely in the controllers, picking up power as it went?  If that’s the case, then my great-grandchildren will be amazingly gifted… prodigies even.

As for me, I’m still playing the fun video game, “set my car clock for daylight savings time.”  It’s been going on for days now. Fall back indeed. Just what the hell did I do with that owner’s manual?

A Good Man

A good man died yesterday. I may write more about this another time, when the wound isn’t still fresh, isn’t still deep. In fact, I’m sure I will. It’s important to acknowledge the passing of a good man. To raise one’s voice to the universe and give thanks for the time one had with him.

The best portion of a good man’s life; his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love. 

– William Wordsworth

dad in his element