The back door creaks. Grampy grabs the wooden rail and makes his way down the steps to his garden. He is dressed in his usual attire—plaid shirt, belted trousers, wing-tips. He pulls the brim of his straw hat down over squinting eyes. It is morning, and there is work to be done.
He gazes at his garden, at the cherry and magnolia trees to the left, the lavender lilac bushes to the right. He inhales the mix of scents—hollyhock, daylilies, roses, coral bells. His garden is far from orderly. It is wild, overgrown. He likes it that way. He likes how lettuce and tomatoes and pole beans are mixed with peonies and snap dragons. He likes bending under branches and vines, pushing back ferns as he walks the path lined with lilac and red and amber and rose. He likes how things are hidden, how he might have an unexpected encounter with a beetle or a bird, or watch an earthworm digging and wriggling under a stick on the ground.
There is a shuffling sound. A pebble skips across the path. Grampy looks down and sees a familiar furry face. The bob-tailed squirrel sits patiently, back straight, paws drawn together as if in prayer. It waits for the usual handout—scraps of crust, nuts, sunflower seeds. Grampy gently shoos it away, waving a hand, an arm, a leg. The squirrel finally takes the hint, scampering away into the bed of impatiens.
Grampy begins his work—weeding, pruning, planting, watering. He bends down low, pulling a stray brown leaf from a thicket. Nearby the yellow jackets drink the lily-nectar and Monarchs flit from rose petal to rose petal. The blue jay swoops down from the green of the trees, and the warm wind gusts, rustling the leaves. It is hotter now, the sun peeking through cracks in the trees. Grampy rolls up his sleeves and touches the warm drip at the end of his nose. Pulling out his handkerchief, he pats and wipes his face.
The backdoor creaks, a voice gently calls. My grandmother, Gammy, holds a glass of iced tea, mint leaves from the garden floating on top. She is small, frail. Her legs are like sticks, her tummy round, protruding. As always, her gray hair is swept neatly in a knot on the top of her head. She wears her cream-colored suit and her flat white shoes with the little openings at the toes. She is beautiful. “Thank you, Mother,” Grampy says, taking the tea from her hands. He takes a few sips, wipes his forehead, sips some more. “The squirrel was back again today. I think you may be spoiling it.” Gammy covers her smile with a cupped hand. Grampy smiles back, then hands her the empty glass. “I’ll be right in,” he says.
Grampy carries the tin watering can over to the spigot near the winding wisteria, filling it full. His legs are wobbling now, his lower back achy, strained. He lifts the can and turns again to his garden. Though weeded, it is still wild—a tangled mingling of textures and colors and scents. Satisfied with the morning’s work, he heads into the house to water the African violets lined up on the window sills. When that job is done, he will rest.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Monday, June 25, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Not All Dads are Handymen
Father’s Day gift ads are different from the Mother’s Day ads seen several weeks ago. There are no ads for flowers or candy or perfume. Instead, there are promotions for hardware—penknives, golf accessories, fishing paraphernalia. And handyman stuff, lots and lots of handyman stuff.
Many people equate dads with fix-it-up things. Not me. Growing up, I was much more likely to see my mom fixing a door handle, unclogging the bathroom drain or trimming the tree limbs in the front of our house. It was my mom who showed me how to paint a room and change the tire on our family station wagon. My dad, on the other hand, knew how to get things done by knowing who to call—the plumber, the tree guy, AAA.
My husband is slightly above what my dad was in the fix-it-up department. He is, though, infinitely more dangerous, since unlike my dad, he has a desire to tackle home projects. We’d barely moved into our home before my husband went on a hardware shopping spree returning with a drill, a circular saw, a ratchet set, and, of most concern in the hands of an amateur handyman, a chain saw. I was relieved when, after trying the saw a few times, my husband somehow managed to break it, effectively eliminating the chance of any catastrophic incident.
My brother-in-law, who knows how to use a chain saw, is the bona fide fix-it-up guy in our family. His home improvement projects include building a cedar closet, renovating a screened-in porch, and digging a six foot deep pond, complete with stone and cement bottom and waterfall. His signature project is a two-story club house with barn-style roof he built for his son. It is wired for electricity and has a window air conditioner. It even has a wrap-around porch and its own handcrafted mailbox. Basically, the playhouse is nicer than our house.
It’s not that there’s anything terribly wrong with our house, just the usual little imperfections one would expect after years of wear and tear—peeling paint, falling-apart screens, a slightly rotting porch. We were handling all this just fine until recently, when a new family moved into the home behind ours. The guy in that house has put us to complete shame. In a matter of months he’s cleared the trees, grown a perfectly green lawn, built a wooden sand box for his daughter, and erected a shed. His latest edition is a magnificent slate patio lined with flowers and potted plants. As if this weren’t enough, he put down a mulch border and added a comfy-looking hammock. This is all happening, mind you, as we are fixing our broken porch screens with duct tape.
On Father’s Day, as in the past, I’ll choose just the right card for my husband. I’ll head to the deli for his favorite breakfast—bagels, cream cheese and lox. I’ll urge him to play in his regular Sunday morning basketball game and watch a guilt-free day of ESPN. Later, the kids and I will make a nice dinner. This year, though, I think I’ll do something else. Yes, a gift card to Home Depot might help ease the pained look on my husband’s face when he gazes out over our neighbor’s yard.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Many people equate dads with fix-it-up things. Not me. Growing up, I was much more likely to see my mom fixing a door handle, unclogging the bathroom drain or trimming the tree limbs in the front of our house. It was my mom who showed me how to paint a room and change the tire on our family station wagon. My dad, on the other hand, knew how to get things done by knowing who to call—the plumber, the tree guy, AAA.
My husband is slightly above what my dad was in the fix-it-up department. He is, though, infinitely more dangerous, since unlike my dad, he has a desire to tackle home projects. We’d barely moved into our home before my husband went on a hardware shopping spree returning with a drill, a circular saw, a ratchet set, and, of most concern in the hands of an amateur handyman, a chain saw. I was relieved when, after trying the saw a few times, my husband somehow managed to break it, effectively eliminating the chance of any catastrophic incident.
My brother-in-law, who knows how to use a chain saw, is the bona fide fix-it-up guy in our family. His home improvement projects include building a cedar closet, renovating a screened-in porch, and digging a six foot deep pond, complete with stone and cement bottom and waterfall. His signature project is a two-story club house with barn-style roof he built for his son. It is wired for electricity and has a window air conditioner. It even has a wrap-around porch and its own handcrafted mailbox. Basically, the playhouse is nicer than our house.
It’s not that there’s anything terribly wrong with our house, just the usual little imperfections one would expect after years of wear and tear—peeling paint, falling-apart screens, a slightly rotting porch. We were handling all this just fine until recently, when a new family moved into the home behind ours. The guy in that house has put us to complete shame. In a matter of months he’s cleared the trees, grown a perfectly green lawn, built a wooden sand box for his daughter, and erected a shed. His latest edition is a magnificent slate patio lined with flowers and potted plants. As if this weren’t enough, he put down a mulch border and added a comfy-looking hammock. This is all happening, mind you, as we are fixing our broken porch screens with duct tape.
On Father’s Day, as in the past, I’ll choose just the right card for my husband. I’ll head to the deli for his favorite breakfast—bagels, cream cheese and lox. I’ll urge him to play in his regular Sunday morning basketball game and watch a guilt-free day of ESPN. Later, the kids and I will make a nice dinner. This year, though, I think I’ll do something else. Yes, a gift card to Home Depot might help ease the pained look on my husband’s face when he gazes out over our neighbor’s yard.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A Book is Just a Click Away
The recent news about the fate of town libraries brought me close to tears. Struggling with budget cutbacks and unsuccessful proposition 2 ½ overrides, libraries in many towns are being forced to close. Others are losing certification, rendering them islands without a bridge, ferry or even a dingy to connect to the larger library world. For small libraries with older collections, this is essentially a death sentence.
Though small and somewhat cramped, Sharon is fortunate to have a fully certified library open six days a week. Many people appreciate Sharon’s connection to the public library system. For those less familiar, the Old Colony Library Network, of which Sharon is a member, is a group of 28 member libraries on the South Shore that collectively maintains over 800,000 titles of books, books-on-tape, CDs and DVDs.
While I regularly use the town library, I also buy my share of books. Many of my purchases, though, seem to end up in a pile—sometimes for years—before I get around to reading them. My wasteful book-buying habits and limited shelf space has led me to a different approach, one that combines the pleasurable aspects of bookstore browsing with the advantages of the library network. I’ll scan the store shelves, pull out my notebook, and jot down the names of books or authors that interest me. Then I’ll log on to the library network (www.ocln.org) and order the books for free.
It was while scrolling through the library network’s Pulitzer Prize winners list that I discovered Alison Lurie’s 1979 novel “Foreign Affairs,” an old-fashioned Jane Austen-ish tale of manners and relationships set in London. After finishing it, I placed holds on some of Lurie’s other books. Though none of the others quite matched her prize winner, I didn’t pay a penny for any of them.
I recently had another successful library network experience after reading the “New Yorker” short story “One Minus One” by Irish author Colm Toibin. I was immediately pulled in by the first line, “the moon hangs low over Texas,” and after passing it to my husband with an urgent plea—“you have to read this”—I logged onto the library network and got the last available copy of Toibin’s new collection of short stories, “Mothers and Sons.”
On the same day I learned of the library closures, I read an article about author Elaine Dundy, the so-called spiritual grandmother of Bridget Jones. The hapless heroine of Dundy’s 1958 semi-autobiographical novel was described as a cross between Holly Golightly and Holden Caulfield. Intrigued, I logged onto the library network and typed in the name of the novel. Sadly, it came up empty. Undeterred, I tried typing in the author’s name, and was rewarded with details about the one copy of the book available at the Kingston library. It was then that I realized my initial mistake—I’d spelled the velvety rich ingredient in guacamole ‘avacado.’ For the record, the correct title and spelling of Dundy’s recently re-issued novel is “The Dud Avocado.”
Laughing at my blunder, I quickly clicked on ‘place a hold’ before any other early Sunday morning riser-readers snatched it up. And now I will sit back and eagerly await the message that will soon arrive in my e-mail box, announcing that my book is ready for pick-up.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Though small and somewhat cramped, Sharon is fortunate to have a fully certified library open six days a week. Many people appreciate Sharon’s connection to the public library system. For those less familiar, the Old Colony Library Network, of which Sharon is a member, is a group of 28 member libraries on the South Shore that collectively maintains over 800,000 titles of books, books-on-tape, CDs and DVDs.
While I regularly use the town library, I also buy my share of books. Many of my purchases, though, seem to end up in a pile—sometimes for years—before I get around to reading them. My wasteful book-buying habits and limited shelf space has led me to a different approach, one that combines the pleasurable aspects of bookstore browsing with the advantages of the library network. I’ll scan the store shelves, pull out my notebook, and jot down the names of books or authors that interest me. Then I’ll log on to the library network (www.ocln.org) and order the books for free.
It was while scrolling through the library network’s Pulitzer Prize winners list that I discovered Alison Lurie’s 1979 novel “Foreign Affairs,” an old-fashioned Jane Austen-ish tale of manners and relationships set in London. After finishing it, I placed holds on some of Lurie’s other books. Though none of the others quite matched her prize winner, I didn’t pay a penny for any of them.
I recently had another successful library network experience after reading the “New Yorker” short story “One Minus One” by Irish author Colm Toibin. I was immediately pulled in by the first line, “the moon hangs low over Texas,” and after passing it to my husband with an urgent plea—“you have to read this”—I logged onto the library network and got the last available copy of Toibin’s new collection of short stories, “Mothers and Sons.”
On the same day I learned of the library closures, I read an article about author Elaine Dundy, the so-called spiritual grandmother of Bridget Jones. The hapless heroine of Dundy’s 1958 semi-autobiographical novel was described as a cross between Holly Golightly and Holden Caulfield. Intrigued, I logged onto the library network and typed in the name of the novel. Sadly, it came up empty. Undeterred, I tried typing in the author’s name, and was rewarded with details about the one copy of the book available at the Kingston library. It was then that I realized my initial mistake—I’d spelled the velvety rich ingredient in guacamole ‘avacado.’ For the record, the correct title and spelling of Dundy’s recently re-issued novel is “The Dud Avocado.”
Laughing at my blunder, I quickly clicked on ‘place a hold’ before any other early Sunday morning riser-readers snatched it up. And now I will sit back and eagerly await the message that will soon arrive in my e-mail box, announcing that my book is ready for pick-up.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
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