"I gathered eggs and fed the cow."

I mentioned to Dave that they were saving hair at the beauty salon to send to the Gulf to make mats to help soak up the oil. Weird and cool all at the same time. He said it was a significant historical detail that will get lost over time because all people ever write in their journals is "Rained today. Made a roast for dinner."

He cited the pioneer journals that we greedily scan for rich moments in their lives only to find the mundane day-to-day that makes us thankful for vacuums and dishwashers. It's the same with my dad's army letters. I've read them all and treasure them, but mostly they are queries about the crops back home and thoughts of how much he misses them. I'm sure he was so homesick that corn and beans and calving was all he wanted to think about. How was he to know he'd later have a daughter who wanted to hear stories about his pet monkey, or what it was like to sit in his ambulance, waiting for another load of desperately wounded men?

Most of my previous journals have been an outpouring of angst so melodramatically anguished that it makes me want to puke, and I wrote it, so since we've moved, I've been trying to refocus, note down details of the gardens and the wildlife. Although, I have to confess, I still note the temperature and rainfall amounts. But what will future generations want to read? What will interest them?

Should I write down how I feel about gay marriage, Sarah Palin, the war in Afghanistan? Or will anyone who finds my journal be more interested in the smaller picture? My little piece of the global puzzle?

Right now that's quilts, auctions, flowers and figuring out if Ruby Calvin really is the illegitimate daughter of Coco de Mer, but I'll try to keep my senses open for more than just wind velocity -- just in case.

And for the record: gay marriage -- "Why not?"; Sarah Palin -- "Please god, why?"; the war in Afghanistan; "Please just let them come home."

Green Peas and Peter Rabbit

We've been eating fresh peas and lettuce from the garden. I'd forgotten how much better everything tastes when you grow it yourself.

Every time I shell peas I remember doing it as a kid, sitting on our big cement step, pinging peas into the black roasting pan. Cheri would start telling some wild tale and right in the middle of it we'd realize she hadn't touched a pea since "Once upon a time".

Lettuce wasn't a big crop at our house when I was little because the rabbits always sheared it off. So Dave and I built a Mr. McGregor-style garden to keep the rabbits out of all the nibbly vegetables. And then Peter Rabbit did visit; we could see where he tried to get under the fence. Happily for my sanity, I didn't find a wriggling bunny caught in the wire by the button of his overalls since I still haven't recovered from the possum-on-the-porch incident.

I planted marigolds all around this smaller garden to keep the bugs out, and I'm very proud of them because I started them all from seeds I collected last fall and only lost the few that Miss Kitty napped on. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be deterring the cabbage butterflies very much, and we're having to keep an eye out for caterpillars on the cabbages. I can't wait for the broccoli which actually tastes pretty sweet when it doesn't have to be picked early and wrapped in cellophane.

I feel a little mean at not giving the bunnies a chance at the kale and carrot tops, but, like me with a box of chocolate almond ice cream, they don't know when to stop.

Quick! Get a Hoe!

Last night the garden was finally dry enough to get in and till out the weeds. It was mostly grass and that creepy stuff that looks like a stunted jade plant, but apparently they were enough to dampen the spirit of all the purposeful plants.

Because when we went out today, everything had leaped upwards in the night. It was amazing how much the pumpkins, squash, melons and corn had grown. It's like the weeds were choking the ground and once that tension was relieved, all the green stuff could burst forth and flourish.

Which raises the question -- what weeds are choking me?

The Elves are Fired!

Since the elves didn't show up -- the lazy little sods -- I had to paint the kitchen myself this weekend. I've been planning to do it since we moved in last year, and I don't even want to admit to myself how long I've had the paint stashed away. There just never seemed to be time to do it. Translation: I could always think of something better to do and I put it off.

But we have company coming next weekend, and this weekend was free, and Dave and I decided to be resolute (He'd been wanting to paint his office.). Actually, Dave was resolute; I was wavering, leaning toward absolute procrastination once again. It was going to be a pain painting around all those cupboards, and how was I going to paint behind the refrigerator? And I'd invariably step in the paint and track it all over my hardwood floors. AARGH!

But. It wasn't, I managed, and I didn't spill a drop. Surprise, surprise, it wasn't nearly as arduous as I imagined, as with most things I dread. I don't know why I forget that -- when I want to learn Italian or stand up for myself -- or like this morning, when I go back to a book I abandoned for my sewing room several months ago.

It's been a long hiatus. Will my characters remember me? Or will they turn their backs and fling their noses in the air? Is my countryside overgrown and weedy? Are all the buildings boarded up?

I'm dreading it. Here's one situation where I'm afraid my imagination will fail me, and I won't be able to think of a thing to write even if there is a person still left in my town who's still speaking to me. It's going to hard and painful and lonely.

Or. Maybe it'll be fun. Maybe I'll be welcomed back like a long-lost friend. Maybe I won't spill the paint.

A Bit Beaverish and a Lot of Sobbing

So far this spring I've heard Samantha sing and watched her dance, visited Meredith's new apartment and cheered Melissa on as she finished a marathon. We've wrangled feuding cats and a buffet we bought at an auction down into the basement. We've planted peas, potatoes, tomatoes and pumpkins, and constructed Mr. McGregor's garden for the lettuce, cabbage and other nibbly bits. I started marigolds and zinnias from seeds and cornered the market on geraniums. And, oh, yeah, I turned 50.

How the bloody hell did I get to be 50!?!?!

Many of my friends tried to console me -- "Fifty's not old."; "You're as young as you feel."; "Fifty is the new forty." Of course, all of these friends are still in their thirties and forties and haven't gotten the first death knell in the mail -- the initial AARP card. However, my oldest sister gave me the best message: "Welcome to the age where you no longer care what anyone thinks and you can say whatever you want."

So with that said:

*I didn't clean up and possibly put on make-up to listen to your child scream in a restaurant. Either pop him on the behind or, if you're afraid of child services, take him outside. I don't care if he's gifted or talented. From my perspective, he's a loud distraction that I shouldn't have to endure.

*Tampons should not be flowery scented. It's not natural and it makes me uneasy.

*Instead of relying on plug-in artificial fragrances, how about cleaning your house once in awhile?

*Why was it high treason that we rail against Dubya while he was in office, but it's perfectly fine to depict Obama as Hitler?

I do feel better. Maybe there's something to this 50-thing after all.