Travelling Trees Or the 1,000-mile Garden

 I've lost track of how many properties in Nebraska my mother has planted and tended. When I say planted, I mean this: In the beginning, they were without form. And mom said, “Let there be a garden.” And when she’s done, though she’s never really done, there are windbreaks that go on for miles, hundreds of shrubs, flowers, rock walls, fences, cover for wildlife, nesting and food for birds and pollen for pollinators.

To the flocks of migrating birds that do a flyover, it’s hard not to make a stopover.

And she gardens against great odds: high, endless winds; drought; floods; tornadoes; hail. It's guerilla gardening, and you had better gird your loins before taking on this rugged prairie.

A few years ago, in a rash of April tornadoes, my parent’s acreage was flooded. Nine inches of rain moved all the corn husks from a nearby, upper feedlot and deposited them on their property. Every square inch of ground was covered in corn husks. She and my dad set about cleaning everything up right after the last corn husk settled. They have the perseverance of pioneers – living not too far from Red Cloud, Nebraska, in Willa Cather country.

Her gardens start with the other love of her life: Earl May (the garden nursery, not the man), although she's had many a fling at Wilke’s Nursery, too. It’s one of the last family-owned nurseries in the state. There’s always a nursery along the way to one of her properties, but she’s been known to drive out of her way for a plant sale. By the way, out of the way in Nebraska is a couple of hundred miles.

And then there’s the rock hunting expeditions to Kansas. She likes to travel back to the seas that once covered Kansas. There’s sandstone, but mostly she and my dad bring home limestone (a mere 70-80 million years old), formed in the deepest portions of that old sea bed. And every rock is full of fossils and shells. The same rock that gave earlier pioneers great building materials, and the post rocks that still mark the property lines. Talk about sturdy posts with character.

While my mom may be the brains, my dad brings brawn to the operation. I’ve never seen anyone dig a fence post hole so quickly or expertly. He unloads pickups full of rock. This hard work accounts for the good shape he’s in. He’s rock pressed tons of stone. He helps with the watering. And in drought years, you have to carry a lot of buckets of water to new plantings at the outer reaches of four acres. Oh, and did I mention he’s also in charge of the tree trimming and mowing?

Mom has been crisscrossing Nebraska for years, tending their properties and planting gardens. And for a decade, she managed three properties in Nebraska and commuted to their home in Iowa. She planted a garden in Iowa, too.

If you lived on one of the routes to their many properties, you’d see a lot of trees and shrubbery cruising by.

Imagine sitting on your front porch and seeing a 10-foot tree and a few viburnums tethered to the back of her truck. Every week, whether in a truck or car, plants are always in tow. When she travelled between Nebraska and Iowa, I guess that qualified her as an interstate and intrastate gardener. Her garden stretched for 1,000 miles.

I called her on Arbor Day, and you’ll never guess what she was doing. Yup, she was planting trees… about 50 of them. “Happy Arbor Day,” she said. Fitting words and work right where Arbor Day started. Out there you need windbreaks. The wind rarely stops. Remember in My Ántonia, the young narrator, Jim, described some of the new immigrants nearly losing their minds from the relentless winds. Trust me; I’ve never had a good hair day out there. But boy, clothes on my mom’s clotheslines dry fast. One day her sheets were blowing straight out from the clotheslines.

And on the seventh day, instead of resting, she hit the road, tree in tow, to plant another garden.

And behold, it was good.

Bathe in It or Use as a Laxative? In Search of Simplicity

I opened my medicine cabinet and saw the problem.

Eye wash, anti-fungal cream, antacids, acid reflux pills, muscle pain cream, cold sore cream, eczema cream, poison ivy block and scrub, anti-itch cream and three deodorants, including invisible gel deodorant. (Do I even have this one on?)

My bathroom was chock-full of expensive astringents and exfoliators. We even have two kinds of mouthwash — for people with and without braces. My laundry is full of detergents that boost, brighten and lift, and that’s just for the wash, never mind the dryer.

How come with all these products I never seem to have what I need?

My grandmother’s cupboards only had a few products, yet she always had a remedy for our latest catastrophe. Maybe because most of the products in her cupboards did double, triple and even quadruple duty? I went in search of simplicity.

First the laundry.

Every washday my grandmother used to bring out her big yellow bar of Fels Naptha soap. She’d take a knife and shave some of it over grandpa’s oil-stained overalls soaking in the washer. I found it at the supermarket right next to the newer sexier soaps.

And when Grandma met up with poison ivy, Fels Naptha removed the toxic oil from her skin and kept it from spreading. Since the oil could last a year, she washed her garden tools in Fels Naptha soap too.

And Fels Naptha beat “ring around the collar” by about 100 years. Just wet the bar, rub it inside a shirt collar and no more “ring around the collar.” I keep a cheese grater next to my washing machine and shave a bit of Fels Naptha into the grimiest load.

Another of Grandma’s staples on washday was 20 Mule Team® Borax. This naturally occurring mineral, boron, puts newer laundry detergents “all natural” claims to shame. Plus it cleans tile and grout, sinks, pots and pans, refrigerators, ovens, microwaves and stainless steel. It even removes mattress odors. When I say its uses are endless, I’m exaggerating slightly, but not by much.

This single product replaced five products: oven cleaner, grout cleaner, stainless steel polish, deodorizer and that pricey product I used to dry flowers.

Feel free to use it for its original purpose: to boost laundry detergent’s cleansing action.

On to the bathroom.

My grandmother quelled bug bites with witch hazel. This plant-based astringent is so effective as an anti-inflammatory that it shrinks anything swollen, from top to bottom. I’m not going into a lot of detail. Just trust me.

And then there’s Epsom salt.

Soak in it, or use it as a natural laxative? I kid you not. You really can do either. And according to the Epsom Salt Council (yes, there really is an Epsom Salt Council), the natural components of Epsom salt, magnesium and sulfate, claim to “ease stress, improve sleep and concentration, regulate the activity of 325+ enzymes and … ” to name just a few. Wow, the Epsom Salt Council is a thorough bunch. I use Epsom salt as a garden fertilizer. Then I add it to a bath and soak; it’s great for sore muscles.

With fewer products in my cupboards, I still have whatever I need —  whether I get stung by a bee, sprain an ankle or need to remove olive oil from my shirt.

And unlike some newer products, I never have to wonder if these products will work as promised. After 100 years, I know their claims have truly been tested. They all passed my grandmother’s test.

Just one question: What am I going to do with all that extra room in my cupboards?

Answer: Nothing.

License to Lollygag

What ever happened to inventing your own fun?

Photo by Joe Hoke

My sister and I spent hours filling condoms with water, then tying them off and lobbing them at our three brothers. We didn't understand why our parents got so upset at the sight of all those broken condoms. Much later, when we found out what condoms were used for, we cried. We’d increased our odds of having another brother. That was the last thing we needed.

Or what about being happy doing nothing? Like lying on your back and looking at the clouds?

Or that thrill of finding a really good rock? No, not a skipping rock, though that is sublime, but a beautiful rock. One you turn over and study endlessly. One that feels good in your hand, fits your pocket and might one day be traded for your brother's old baseball glove.

My grandmother and I used to sit on her cellar stairs and watch the latest batch of kittens play. The boldest one would ascend the stairs, and then his siblings would snag his leg and drag him back down. We didn’t exchange a word; we just watched a spinning ball of ears, tails, feet and other furry parts roll by.

 Yesterday I watched our cat Van Gogh enjoy his afternoon bath. First he licked his left paw and began a methodical swipe over his left ear. Then he licked his right paw and swiped his right ear. He splayed his toes apart and pulled out some dirt. Next he started on his large belly. Sitting on his hindquarters, back legs stretched straight out, he worked that soft, fluffy underbelly hair up into a clean, white mass. Then he pulled his tail between his legs, and starting at the base, he worked all the way up to the tip. He capped the whole affair off by curling his freshly cleaned tail around himself and began a nap.

Van Gogh has better hygiene habits than most people I know. And I know he has better hygiene habits than my husband. He forgets his left ear.

 Another pleasure this time of year: watching Cedar Waxwings devour fermented fruit. I heard their whistling “tsseeeee,” “tseeeee” as a flock landed on our crabapple tree. They picked it clean. I swear they got giddier as the orgy went on. Just take a look at their incandescent glow, as if lit from within.

 Why not linger at such a sight? Rack up unaccounted hours?

 Yesterday in the supermarket I heard a young boy complain to his mother: "I'm bored."

 Bored?

I was never bored as a child. We were left alone to invent our own fun. No adults organized a play date or a party. We met in backyards and back alleys, and we created something — something we could all do together. Even if that something was turning condoms into water balloons. Hey, you work with what you have.

Have you ever watched ants? Precision and productivity are built into every move. But productivity in humans is often unproductive — to come up with the original, to see the smorgasbord of beauty all around us, for that, you need time.

So what about being happy doing nothing?

It comes in real handy.

Boy, I'm feeling old, but I'm also feeling lucky. I know how to invent; I know how to play; and I know how to be blissfully happy doing nothing.

Ode to a Broom

There’s a sound disappearing from modern life. It’s the sound of rooms being swept at the end of the day. First the rugs are removed and shaken with a fortitude that produces a cracking snap. Snap. Snap. This reveals the day’s remnants – a watermelon seed, a tiny piece of hardened tar and something unrecognizable. The rugs are retired to the clothesline or a porch rail while the rooms, particularly the high-traffic kitchen, are swept. 

Then the porch, the steps and the sidewalk are swept. That sound is missing too. It’s been replaced by the gas-powered blower; a sound that mars the tranquility of an early morning snowfall. My neighbor owns a gas-powered blower. She’s fastidious and uses it on her driveway and sidewalks all year round – on leaves, snow, dust, you name it. Luckily for me, she’s also a considerate neighbor and doesn’t fire up her blower before 8 a.m. even though I know she’s ready to blow at 6 a.m.

My grandmother had a broom hanging right outside the kitchen at the top of the basement steps, ready for daily use. My grandfather had a broom inside the door of his gas station. He ran that gas station for over 60 years and everything in it, including his broom, were original. His broom took on the smell of its locale and its duties– gasoline, Lucky Strikes and 10W-40 oil. As a kid I’d help him sweep up at the end of a long, hot Minnesota summer day. The broom bristles deposited cigarette butts to a designated corner. I was rewarded with a cold black cherry pop and his confidential observations and opinions on the day’s customers. 

Brooms are useful for other things, too.

I often evict a confused cat from my garden with one swipe, just before it turns my lilies into its litter box. I unsnag small branches hung up in the gutters. My broom’s stiff bristles are firm but forgiving. They are strong enough to lean on as my neighbor complains about our current president. After a heavy snowfall, my broom is strong enough to move snow, but gentle enough not to leave a scratch on the car. I don’t need any horsepower except my own.

When my sister and I were young, she was assigned the task of sneaking a dozen eggs from the refrigerator, and I would grab the broom. We’d head out back to a secluded, sunny spot where we had piled dirt. There, we’d crack eggs until we ran out of either eggs or daylight. I’d use the broom handle to stir the two together. Once the egg and dirt had been patted into mud pies, I’d twirl the broom around and sweep up, and voilà – our bakery was open for business.

A broom is elegant simplicity, nothing superfluous. It combines business and beauty. And who can object to the sound of a broom? The few brooms I do see these days are often in bad shape. I can’t bear the sight of a mistreated broom. Splayed out bristles, left out in the rain to wick up moisture. Unforgiveable.

There is something hopeful about a broom as the person on the other end begins a rhythmic act of transformation.

My day ends with a sweep of the front stoop, then I move down the steps to the sidewalk, where I rest my chin on the broom handle and snatch the day’s last light. 

So let me correct an oversight.

There’s Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” so why not “Ode on a Broom”? Anything as useful and beautifully designed as a broom should be eulogized.

Tweeter: Communication & Collaboration

Humans think we’re so smart; we’ve got nothing over birds. They’ve got a social network that we can’t match.

                                                                 Photograph by Robert E. Regnier

I just filled my birdfeeders after a year of empty feeders dangling in the wind. Now there’s a backyard smorgasbord of black niger, millet, sunflower seeds, peanuts and suet cakes. And how long do you think it took for word to get out? A nanosecond. First came the nuthatches. They sent word to the chickadees. The chickadees told the finches. Oops, who told the flicker? Birds scattered everywhere as the flicker clung to the suet cake and pigged out. Birds are superior to people when it comes to communication.

Last week, shortly after getting out bed, I felt queezy, so I got back into bed. It took my husband until two o’clock in the afternoon to figure out where I was (he works from home.) I realized I could starve. When he finally did find me, he was confounded:

He: Why are you in bed?
Me: Sick.
He: Where?
Me: Here (pointing to my head).
He: I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I’d better just leave you alone.
Me: No. I need water. I need food.
He: Well, what’s in the refrigerator?
Me: Geez, my x-ray vision is broken (Even when I’m sick I can muster the energy for sarcasm.) Go look.He: Stay right here.Me: Gee, I’ll try. (Still sarcastic despite low fluid levels.)He: I didn’t see anything in the refrigerator.Me: Did you see eggs?
He: I may have.
Me: Scramble them.
Me: Did you see bread?
He:  I don’t remember.
Me: Go toast it.
Me: Make some tea, too.
(An hour later)
Me:  Help.
And what would birds make of our 2008 pre-election dinner dialogue?
Me: We need to replace the fuel pump in your car.
He: Obama is ahead in the latest Gallup poll.
Me:  It will cost about $300, and the garage can do the work this Friday.
He:  But Obama has to do well in the last debate.
Me:  I’ve scheduled it; so don’t forget to drop your car off at the garage Thursday night.
He: You know 80 percent of the deficit came from Bush.
Me: Take your credit card, so you can pay for it.
He: He ought to tell them.
Me: Tell who?
He: The American people; spell it out: The two wars, the tax breaks.
Me: Did I overcook your salmon?
He: People ought to know.
Me: So, go tell everyone that I didn’t overcook your salmon.
Me: Dear, my left ovary just fell out. (Maybe this will get his attention.)
He:  I hope he tells them in the third debate.Me:  So long ovary.

Birds beat humans in collaboration, too. I remember a decade ago, I stood on the banks of the Mustinka River in Minnesota with my friend Bob. We were watching pelicans fish.

Pelicans have been doing this since atoms and DNA conspired to form a pelican. We were standing where it all began, not far from Browns Valley – where the earliest man was found in the Traverse Gap, the ancient glacial bed known as Lake Agassiz. Anyway, back to the river where we were standing.

My friend Bob has watched and photographed pelicans fishing since he moved to this remote part of Minnesota. We went there every day during my visit in hopes of seeing Pelicans fishing together. And finally we did.

They form a semicircle — a pelican net. Then one pelican drives the fish into the pelican net.

And none of these birds fly around bragging about how superior they are to humans or eat us. Though I wouldn’t blame them if they did.

The Lilacs Are Here

Their scent loiters in the kitchen, the bedroom—a scent registered from birth—of life, of possibility, of love.       

One whiff ignites a memory of a drive across the Minnesota prairie with my grandparents. Lilacs were everywhere: at abandoned farms, next to a leaning barn, by a fence, ringing an outhouse, flanking the foundation of a deserted farmhouse. We took cover in that farmhouse to watch a thunderstorm swab the prairie. “This must have been the kitchen,” my grandmother said. “The mistress could wash her dishes here by the window and smell the lilacs,” she surmised. 

After the storm, we emerged to a prairie perfumed with distilled lilac.  And there, growing in the center of a rusted old threshing machine stood a lilac bush bent with rain. Its partially opened petals pressed against the earth. The delicate blossoms belied their endurance through brutal Minnesota winters.

Farmers planted long rows of lilacs as windbreaks. My grandfather remembered a fire that jumped from house to barn, and then burned two mile-long windbreaks of lilacs. Their smoldering embers gave off an incense of lilac that lasted for weeks.

We stopped at a cemetery, and atop a grave, a lone sprig of lilac. My grandfather, quick with numbers, noted its occupant was dead 17 years— but her husband, his name inscribed next to hers, was still among the living. “Ya, he must have just been here,” he said, remains of his German accent still evident 85 years later.

Yesterday, I listened to a friend’s regime of pills: morning antidepressant, evening sleeping pill. The possible side effects of the antidepressant: “may cause thoughts of suicide.” The side effects of the sleeping pill: “may cause morning grogginess.” I bring her a bouquet of lilacs, hoping their perfume will alter her state.

My prescription: May be taken before meals, after meals, during meals, at bedtime, and upon rising. Take three times a day, 30 times a day, 100 times a day, or as often as you like. Possible side effects: None. But you may want to sing, want to loaf, want to banish futility, want to surrender to their perfume . . .

So this is just to say: Work is suspended today. No cell phones. No emails.

The lilacs are here.

Free Weights

I’m off to the gym. Off to build bone density as I wait for the free weights and the lat pull machine to free up. Spandex is as far as the eye can see as I work my biceps, my triceps, and my wallet with full flexion.

I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve been doing this on and off, mostly on, for the past thirty years. Wherever I’ve lived, I pay the monthly fees, I drive to the gym (Hey, shouldn’t I jog to the gym?), and I drive back home — three times a week.

I have forked over millions in monthly fees. Plus, I've paid for all those classes: Jazzercise, aerobics, step, Pilates, yoga, spinning, kickboxing, core, high-intensity interval training, toning, strengthening with bands, ThighMaster, you name it.

Well before I even get inside the gym, it gets crazy. It starts in the parking lot with everyone vying for a spot closest to the gym's front door. God forbid we should have to walk too far for exercise. Things get even stranger inside, what with the grunts and groans.

I have always known there was something terribly wrong with all this.

Maybe it’s because of my grandmother.

Lack of bone density never occupied a nanosecond of her consciousness. Not because she was ignorant of it. She trained as a nurse at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and knew plenty about good health. But then she didn’t spend hours on the Internet; she didn’t have an in-box clogged with e-mails; she didn’t have iPhone chats; and she didn’t sit for long periods in a car or on a plane.

No, she worked a 19-hour day nearly all of her 91 years. She was on her feet all day. She grew enough, cooked enough, sewed enough, and cleaned enough to keep a family of eight thriving.

She also worked in the family business — a gas station on the edge of the prairie on Highway 60 in Mountain Lake, Minnesota. When Grandpa came home from work to eat the meal she cooked and laid out for him, she (wo)manned the pumps.

And while I’m at it, she didn’t have to learn to live in the moment either. When the tomatoes were ripe, she picked them. If she had more tomatoes than eight mouths could eat, she canned them. When the sun was out, she hung laundry on the line. You get the idea?

But back to that weight room.

Sometime in her early eighties, I noticed my grandmother’s heavy cast iron skillets were no longer on the lower kitchen shelf. As I struggled to put them away to their new higher location, I asked her about this move. She told me she had purposely moved them higher to gain strength.

It took awhile for my addled brain to comprehend what she had just said.

Geez, that’s a muscle-building maneuver with each meal; a home gym with every home-cooked meal.

Twenty-five years later, the inventiveness of this move makes me marvel at her ingenuity; it makes me mindful of the over-engineered, overrated, and overpriced workouts I’ve subjected myself to.

And don’t even get me started on how she cross-trained her brain.

Trust me, there wasn’t an electronic device in sight.