Wobbling Towards Vertical

My goal last winter was to stay vertical.

Scraping a windshield; hunkered over an ice dam with my chop, chop, chop; or bent with shovel; upright is the state I prefer. It’s lovelier to greet spring nose to lilac, not feet to lilac.

But then people in my family don’t fall. We’re careful, upright people. None of my grandparents broke bones. Neither of my parents ever broke a bone. Not one of us five kids ever had a broken bone—and it wasn’t for lack of trying.

So It never occurred to me that I might break something last fall when a fully loaded wheelbarrow got away from me on a steep slope in my backyard. And so it never occurred to me to let go. I hung on tight and got dragged over fresh tilled earth—startled by the closeness of my nose to ground. And then came the drop.

 Three feet. While airborne, the contents of the wheelbarrow, manure, that is, must have separated from the wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow went down. The manure went up. I went down, and then the manure went down. I think that was the chronology. It’s hard to remember the chronology when you’ve just broken the gravity barrier. The wheelbarrow hit with a hollow clang, which I realized, as manure rained down on me, was because it was now empty. I sat breathless, bordered by manure.

Now my back yard is private, very private, but the first thing I did was look to see if anyone had seen me. Pride can take a real beating when your flawless record is flawed. I sat there stunned. I landed on my fanny, which divine wisdom has amply padded. I started to move body parts carefully. I unfolded my left leg, which was turned in and under my right leg. I took my right arm and cradled it in my left arm. I moved all the fingers on my left hand. Everything seemed to work. I examined my arms and fingers and legs and feet like a newborn discovering them for the first time. I took a deep breath and slowly got up. Just the act of rising from the ground was confounding. But my wobbly legs supported me.

Still shaken, I shared my fall with my friend Linda, who said she lived accident-free until a certain age. Then she became clumsy. Her theory: “Estrogen keeps you upright and accident-free.”

But then there’s my mother. She still climbs a ladder to paint the peak of her house at age 75. My friends are afraid for me. Afraid of the call from the emergency room that goes like this: “Your mother is here. A neighbor found her dangling from a ladder still holding her paint brush.”

So next time I’ll either enjoy the ride or let go. I’ll probably let go. Then again, maybe my mother has the right idea: go out with a bang, not a whimper.

Lutheran Versus Catholic Gardeners

Let’s start with Name That Plant:

To a Lutheran, they’re Coral Bells; to a Catholic, Heuchera. Here’s my theory: botanical names are a snap for Catholics after all those dominos vobiscums. Latin lingers in the eustachian tubes, or is it fallopian tubes? After a Latin mass—botanical names hold no mystery.

Lutheran gardeners sing while gardening. I kid you not.  Lutherans carry so many hymns around in their heads that they’re bound to slip out while weeding. If they aren’t mid-stanza in A Mighty Fortress Is Our God, they’re probably humming How Great Thou Art. I often hear my mother singing Holy, Holy, Holy when she weeds. So, if you’re driving by a garden and you see a bent gardener, rear end pointing heavenward and hear this devout ditty: “Beautiful savior, king of creation, son of God and son of man.” Lutheran gardener, for sure.

Guilt.
You can’t escape it, especially in the garden—home of original sin. (Have another apple, Adam.) Guilt is a close kin of remorse. And the garden equivalent of buyer’s remorse is planter’s remorse. The difference: Lutherans go on endlessly about should haves: “I should have planted more beans.” Catholics opine, “I should not have planted so much zucchini.” But the biggest difference is the length of the guilt. It’s short-lived for Catholics. One Hail Mary, and they’re absolved. Lutherans suffer longer, and so does everyone around them.

On authority.
While Lutheran gardeners seek guidance from authority, they question it. And the ultimate authority on their garden? Them. Got that? Catholic gardeners consult a higher authority—usually only one—and they accept that authority without so much as a “but,” a “what if,” or a “how about . . .?” 

Not convinced?
Here’s an example. My Catholic friend, Mary, called the local county extension office about wilt on her eggplant. They told her to remove the wilted leaves and dispose of them, which she dutifully did. The eggplant died. All of it. Turns out her husband, who indulges in an extra Martini or two when Mary is away on business, left the hose on for three days. The poor eggplant roots were as saturated as he was. Now a Lutheran would have questioned, waited, and the problem would have cleared up, when the roots and the husband dried out.

On redemption.
Both religions believe the route to redemption is paved with acts of charity and good works, but mainly when they have too much zucchini. (Here’s an interfaith faith tip: it’s not an act of charity after the first two pounds of zucchini—O.K?)

Salvation.
For Lutheran gardeners, it’s unconditional. Salvation is trickier for Catholic gardeners, what with the all the confessions, the absolutions, and the penance.

A Catholic gardener that confesses he drowns chipmunks is looking for absolution. If he feels the need to do penance, suggest he come weed your acre. No need to feel guilty. After all, you’re just bringing him one step closer to the rapture. If he resists, just mention PURGATORY. It works on Catholics every time. 

Lutherans don’t believe in purgatory; they believe in Lutefisk. Enough said.

And now a few words on transubstantiation—a word as long as this damn zucchini left at my front door. Lutherans don’t buy it, except symbolically. Catholics believe that the bread and wine were changed into the body and blood. Literally. To that I say: “Lord, please turn this zucchini into grilled eggplant and a little red wine.”

Life everlasting? 

Yup, both faiths believe.

Which brings me to my Norwegian friend, Brigitta. She has the flexibility of her Viking ancestors. Those pagan plunderers had a slew of their own gods. They carried coins adorned with Odin entering Valhalla. But right next to those coins, they carried the cross. They figured why not hedge their bets.

I visited Brigitta last week in Minnesota, and as we toured her garden I noticed a little statue of St. Jude next to a replica of a Viking ruin stone.

“Hey, isn’t that the patron saint of hopeless causes?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“But you’re not even Catholic. Since when do you pray to saints?” I asked.

“It’s insurance, in case my green thumb fails,” she said.

And don’t get me started on Anglican gardeners. They disagree with anything, and they go off and form their own church.

A Note About My Credentials
I was raised a Lutheran, but went to Catholic colleges. If that doesn’t give me perspective, it gives me lots of raw material.

This interfaith background helps me spot the differences between Catholic and Lutheran gardeners. Stearns County, Minnesota, was my training ground. It’s easy there, with so many bathtubs cut in half, tipped on their sides to make a shrine over the Virgin Mary. A few wiseass Catholics have Mary in a shower stall.

Garden Vigilantes

I don't like generalizations, but here goes: Gardeners are nurturers. Tending and turning the soil, nursing fledgling plants through disease and drought, they have an abiding respect for life.

Yet, at every garden gathering, the topic turns to pests and how to dispense with them. It starts with slugs, then moves up the food chain.

One woman shared her foolproof method for catching voles: bait a mousetrap with peanut butter and place the trap near their hole. Cover the trap with an overturned flowerpot to simulate the vole's dark den. The peanut butter lures these late-night snackers faster than a pack of Hostess Twinkies draws my husband off the sofa during a football game. Then comes the sound of success: smack, followed by a few helpless heaving thumps against the sealed death chamber. "Does this work on chipmunks?" asks a fellow gardener. "Well, it doesn't kill them, but we have a pond nearby and guess what?" "What?" we ask in unison. "Chipmunks can't swim." A churlish grin. Heads nod in approval.

On to bigger game. "A garden hose attached to your car exhaust pipe shoved into a raccoon's den works nicely," one woman says. She sat in her car listening to All Things Considered as she asphyxiated a whole family who had devoured her sweet corn.

One gardener asks, "Why didn't you just use a HavahartTM trap and relocate them?" Turns out game, at risk for carrying rabies, cannot be transported, so she was forced to dispense with these raccoons while listening to the news. Everyone pats her on the back as we marvel at her ingenuity, her effective use of time, and her ability to multitask. The group casts a collective glance of disdain at the gardener who questioned this brilliant tactical maneuver.

Another woman offers a flambé forget-me-not: add two parts lighter fluid to one part gasoline in a soda can. Stuff a rag into the opening, light, lob and take cover. "Wait," says a retired firefighter, "you don't need both lighter fluid and gasoline. One would be enough." "But the lighter fluid makes a really big bang," she says.

Finally, the biggest game of all: deer. "There's something that works every time," one man says. We move closer to him. He lifts his hand in the air, makes the shape of a gun, takes aim, and his air gun kicks back from the force of the shot. He brings his smoking weapon to his mouth and blows.

Among gardeners, there's a begrudging admiration for every critter's determination. But, at the other end of the weapon of their choice, there's an equally determined gardener. So we begin again, to devise new ways to nurture the life we love and murder what we don't.

This essay first appeared on A Prairie Home Companion Website.

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.