More Scenes from Around the Playground

The first way we're imprinting our new place is by adding flower beds and perennials. We used the hose trick my sister Lynn taught us -- lay out the garden hose until you get the shape you want. Our theory is that the black paper will kill the grass underneath and make it easier to till up next spring. We've already planted yarrow, asters, bee balm and sedum in this bed. The pumpkins are place holders.

(Right)I know this looks like a pile of leaves, but come next spring it will be my first iris bed. The two little brown piles above and to the left will be peonies. To the right of the iris bed, I planted a clump of apple blossom tulips. That picture really does look like a dirt spot in the lawn, so I'll let you use your imagination. (Left) Next to the house, I planted two clumps of tulips -- pale yellow and apricot. Dave scattered grape hyacinth bulbs around in this bed as well. I also put him to work planting scilla bulbs around the base of one of our big trees. If you've never seen scilla in the spring, they are a beautiful periwinkle blue bloom that creates a carpet when they spread. I have perhaps been too influenced by the small people in my life who like fairies, but that's what I think of when I see the scilla in the spring.

Imprints and Footprints

Our neighbors came over for supper last week, and Peg brought pictures of what our house looked like in the 1980s when they lived here. The barn, chicken house and other outbuildings are gone now, and the last owner added on two rooms to the east side of the house and a closed porch to the west so the place looks very different, and, yet, still the same.

Groves of trees still border us on the west and east, and you can still see the old cement steps under a new back porch. In one picture, the flowers planted by the house looked nearly identical to what I put in this year in the very same beds. Peg and Ron's son, Troy, took his little boy up to see his old room and recreated the warning signal of "Mom had had enough" by shutting the basement door hard. "When you heard that," he said, "you knew she'd hidden the yardstick."

Part of the old kitchen is still here -- used as a laundry room now -- the linoleum and cupboards are the same. What was the dining room we now use as a reading room or kitchen annex -- we haven't settled on what to call it. And what is our living room they kept shut off from the rest of the house because it was too cold to heat.

It must have been weird for them to sit in a house that was theirs and is now ours, with our aesthetic and way of life. We have lots of books and quilts and no toys (not counting cat toys which Teddy doesn't play with anyway). Aside from the occasional bursting into song, Dave and I are relatively quiet so it must have sounded very different around here too. They had boys in and out of the house and snowmobiles and bicycles and dogs.

I'm grateful for their stories because we have a better understanding of our place. Now we know that the pumpkins grew like gangbusters because the garden is right where the cow lot used to be, and the pipe Dave ran over with the lawn mower was once actually connected to a building and not mysteriously out in the middle of nowhere.

Their stories give me a better sense of history as we move forward and put our imprint on the place. And a deeper responsiblity as well.

In a Pickle Dish

I've been approaching the quilts at estate auctions as I would puppies at the humane society. I want to be sure they all have a good home because most of the quilts are rare breeds that may soon be extinct.

The quilting industry, it seems to me, is slanting toward the "do it quick" quilt. Kits with pre-selected fabrics, Stack-n-Whack, Slapplique (Don't get me started on this one) are more and more the norm. And I understand why busy women or quilters on limited budgets might opt for this, but I fear we're going to lose our heritage.

My best friend has a beautiful Drunkard's Path quilt draped over an antique ladder in her dining room. It's a two-color version -- white and that great faded pink of the 30s and 40s, and it dawned on me one day that it may be the last one I ever see in captivity. Who sits down to make Drunkard's Path anymore? Or Dresden Plate or Double Wedding Ring -- at least not without a quick method and a guarantee of success.

So it's time I put my money and time where my mouth is. A friend once said that one person doing something is an action; two people is a cause. I'm willing to be the one person who takes an action. One of my favorite quilts is Pickle Dish so that's my first step, and you're all in at the beginning. Literally the beginning because I haven't even pressed the fabric yet. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Beetle Invasion

I am not a woman of great patience. Those of you who know me will not be shocked by this news. So if one more person says to me, "You know, you're living in the country now," I am not responsible for my actions, which might involve a rotary cutter and rubbing alcohol. Just because I have relocated does not deprive me of my right to bitch.

The lady bug mimics have invaded my home! Those beetles that look like lady bugs but are literally pale imitations minus the sweet disposition and the predilection for staying outside among the flowers are crawling across the ceilings, dying on the carpets and generally clogging up my life -- not to mention my vacuum cleaner. As it is with mosquitos and crossing guards on Interstate 80, they serve no useful purpose. They swarm, they bite and they stink if you squish them. I cannot utter "YUCK" with enough force or meaning.

And to those of you who like to remind me where I live now, let me just remind you that I have lost my boots in manure, walked acres of beans, herded cattle, tried to herd hogs, sprayed thistles, thrown hay bales out of the hay mow and dressed chickens with a hangover. I know where I am.

Lightning Bugs and Unripe Tomatoes

Seasonally, it's been a quirky few months in Iowa. It began well. We had several gorgeous nights sitting on the porch watching the fireflies light up the garden, but as the weeks advanced into July, I prepared Dave for a blistering August, but it was so cool at the state fair, I could have danced down the boulevard in a sweatshirt. "It'll get hot in September," I said.

"Don't expect a Michigan fall," I said.

"We can still get hot weather in October," I said.

Saturday morning we woke up to an inch of snow on the ground, and last night I gritted my teeth every time the sleet pinged and zlinked against the window screen.

Dave now thinks I'm full of crap.

Don't get me wrong. I am not a fan of humidity and 90-degree summer days. I can remember the torture and frustration of standing in front of a fan -- which was only blowing hot air around -- trying to pull on pantyhose over sweaty skin because we had to go to a wedding or church or something, only to be elbowed out of the way be a sister who was waiting to attempt the same feat. I'd be happy if the thermometer never rose above 75 -- if it weren't for the tomatoes that stayed green until last week. But this is just weird.

Yeah, yeah, I know -- global warming. I get it. I don't ignore evolution either. But what am I supposed to do for BLTs?

Coming Home

Joy has always been a scary condition. Growing up in the philosophy of God as a grouchy old man with his finger poised over the "Smite" button will do that to a person. But I'm learning to be brave and not duck every time I feel happy. Which is a good thing because I'm so happy since we came home to Iowa.

I certainly miss some things about Ann Arbor -- foreign films at the Michigan Theater, the Sweetwaters Cafe on Washington Street, the availability of goat cheese -- but I've gained so much more than I've lost. Nothing huge -- unless you count the square footage of mowable yard -- just lots of little things I'd forgotten I loved -- the color of ripe soy beans, working outside all day and getting really dirty, the calls of killdeer and bobwhites, battered farm cats who live a Darwinian existence but still like a cuddle if you'll only sit down on the front step.

So I will not dishonor joy by pushing it aside. I'll sit down on the back step with a little calico cat with a crumpled ear, watch the wind blow the pansies around, and wait for the cicadas to start warming up.

Texting Shakespeare

My niece just bought a book about how to successfully discuss books you've never read. Not a bad concept, albeit a little scary. However, since I made it through a Twain, Howells and James course in grad school while only reading Twain, I can't be too high and mighty.

She's reacting to a reading list forced on her this summer, and I have to agree with her on some of the choices. What kid wants to read Great Expectations? I really like Dickens and even I don't want to read Great Expectations. And really, what angst-ridden teenager should read Romeo and Juliet without proper supervision? Someone should be standing close by to say, "Look, Romeo is a real jerk."

I'm a huge fan of literature. I think kids should read literature and be exposed to many different kinds, but I'm against turning them off the classics because of some archaic list of "must reads". Just because high school freshmen have read Romeo and Juliet for a hundred thousand years doesn't make it a good choice.

I'd love to not sound like an old fart with this next point, but there's no way round it -- with the instant gratification of the internet and texting, kids have even less patience and attention span than before. My niece complained about The Odyssey, and on that I had to disagree because it's not only a great story, but the basis of so much that came after. "OK," she said, "but couldn't they summarize it?"

Yikes!

Scenes from Around the Playground

The fall weather in Iowa has been gorgeous -- especially if you love breezy, cloudy days, which I do! I took time yesterday just to explore my own yard.

Teddy finds his boundaries.

Point of view: Miss Kitty
The pumpkin patch -- point of view: Me
The pumpkin patch -- point of view: Pumpkin
My yarrow survived!!

A monk's eye view of the neighbors' house.

Doesn't Everyone's Teapot Have Parents?

I have always loved stories. I can't remember a time since I learned to read that I wasn't starting a book, in the middle of a book, or finishing a book. I used to carry stacks of little square books with me in the car, and I used to horrify my sisters because I read at basketball games. (I still think the best parts of basketball games are the highlights on ESPN.)

Somewhere along the way, I apparently started assigning stories to everything -- objects, situations -- even numbers. The numbers 1 to 10 weren't just lines on a page with values; mine had personal lives. Number 1 was the stalwart; 2 was the ingenue and 3 her childish sidekick. Number 4 was Gilligan to #5's Skipper. Six and Seven were in love, but Eight was jealous and did everything she could to break them up, but #9 kept 8 in check to protect the lovers. Nine was the swashbuckling hero -- and a bit arrogant. Number 10 was the wise figure who had made it to the top and just smiled at all the foolishness the others got up to.

I have always thought of them that way. Even now when I am memorizing Italian numbers, seis and siete cannot be split up.

I didn't realize it was anything special until a friend of mine turned to me after I'd been animating the pansies or the teapot or something and said, "You know, LeAnn, not everyone does that."

Really? I assumed it was inherent in all brains -- like Paul McCartney who said once he thought everyone heard songs in their heads.

And then I thought . . . Cool!

Dave and I vacationed at Traverse Bay, Michigan one summer. We were standing on the beach really early one morning when two middle-aged men put a remote-control boat into the water and starting zooming it around. It was fun to watch -- for awhile. It was kind of boring with no story. Then Dave and I both turned to each other and said, "Pirates!"

My Cat from the Universe

They say (whoever "they" are) that you are sent the cat you are meant to have. Teddy proves that rule. He found us -- climbing on the windowsill and meowing in the window at our old house in Ann Arbor. Happily I had a spare can of tuna and a cat owner relationship was born. And I mean "cat owner" as in he owns us. I don't know how we managed our household before Teddy arrived because he is clearly in charge.

He's the perfect cat for me because he loves quilts. If there's a quilt available, he's snuggling in. Sometimes this happens when I've got one bunched up on my sewing table trying to get the binding attached. Trust me, it is not easy to maneuver a quilt with a furry passenger.

I arranged my antique quilts on a shelf under a wooden serving piece in the dining room, and I wondered how long it would take him to play "Prince and the Pea". Not long. My very next trip through the dining room I spotted him curled up on top of the embroidered daffodils.

Happily, he's very respectful of quilts. If only the same were true of the upholstery.

Pushing Past the Demons

Since I've been determined to reach the top of the mountain, my personal demons have been especially grasping and needy, and they haven't made it easy this week to persevere. Why is it that the familiar ruts feel so safe even though in the long run they are the most unhealthy choices?

Some of the best advice I ever received was to walk headlong into any fear or strong emotion I was experiencing. It's the same concept as the "straight to the top of the mountain" analogy. So with that in mind, I plunge into my propensity for self-sabotage.

I eat more than I know I should or even want; I don't exercise even though I know I'll feel better; and I watch too much television because it's easier than facing the obstacles of writing or designing. But none of those behaviors feels good -- or represents the woman I'd really like to be.

The former is who I've always been. Am I afraid I'll lose something important if I let her go? Can't I keep the best parts of her and still become someone better? Someone I've learned to be after years of living and thinking and reading?

I know I began this rebellious behavior in response to my mother's shaming. I've always been an "Oh, yeah, I'll show you" person. But the rebellion doesn't serve me well either.

I wish I had a tangible step to take to get past all the demons, a sure-fire way to avoid their clammy green hands and emerge into the clear. But I don't. Yet.

Sometimes when my plot gets stuck, I'll write the question I most need an answer to and leave it to the Universe to respond. Perhaps that's my next best step to push past the demons.

So.

How do I achieve that "tweak" of perception that allows me to move beyond my old way of thinking and being? How do I get clear of the demons?