Sep 21

Tales From the Garden – Part 2

I had such a good time volunteering at the Chicago Botanic Garden my first summer that I decided to go back the next year. This time I volunteered in the Fruit & Vegetable Garden. It was an entirely different experience.

All the Fruit & Vegetable volunteers, usually about four of us, would arrive early in the morning, before the garden officially opened, and meet in the Fruit & Vegetable Garden Office. The staff would tell us all about the plant we would be giving away that day. They would also prep us so we could answer basic questions about its care, use and how to cook it.

Then we’d go into the garden to the carts. One cart was parked just at the entrance to the Fruit & Vegetable Garden. The other was somewhere in the middle. One volunteer would staff each cart and the other two volunteers would walk through the garden greeting people and answering their questions. We’d change jobs every hour.

F and V 2

From the Chicago Botanic Garden’s Website www.chicagobotanic.org

The carts were made of wood and painted brown. There was plenty of room on the inside to keep all the plants we would be giving away that day. On the shelf at the top we would display a few plants to create interest. We’d also put our information sheets there. On one side, the sheet would tell all about the plant, its history and how to take care of it. On the other side, the sheet would have one or two recipes telling how to cook it.

I always tried to get the cart at the entrance. I met more people that way. I’d approach them as they entered the garden, saying, “Good morning! How are you?” Usually they’d respond back.

I’d continue, “Would you like a plant to take home today? They’re free and it’s a lot of fun growing them once they start producing peppers (tomatoes, basil, etc.). We also have a sheet that tells how to grow it and there are some recipes on the back.”

From the Chicago Botanic Garden’s Website www.chicagobotanic.org

From the Chicago Botanic Garden’s Website
www.chicagobotanic.org

Most people said yes. Usually each person in the group wanted their own plant, especially the children. Sometimes people would stop and talk. They’d share how their gardens were coming along at home or how the last plant they’d gotten from us had done.

I always saw lots of smiles. Everyone likes to get something for free, especially when it’s something they can take home, grow for themselves and then actually eat.

The summer passed before I knew it and I had to go back to work. Next time I’ll tell you what I did my third summer at the Garden!

Sep 18

What is Writing?

What is writing to you? Writing can mean many things to different people.

1–Writing is exhausting.

Remembering the rules of syntax and sentence structure is a struggle. Perfection halts our progress putting words to paper.

1–Writing is exhilarating.

Initially, don’t worry about spelling and sentence structure. There is a freedom to words. Getting your struggles and thoughts out of your mind and onto paper clears your head. Once they are released into your world, you can address them. Accomplishing that is a thrilling expression.

2–Writing is personal.

It is risky to write. You expose yourself to others’ judgement. Your self-image becomes vulnerable to criticism. Those are scary moments.

2–Writing is personal.

When you share your words, you share your experience. Others do relate to that. Hearing someone say “I learned from this,” “I was entertained,” and “this made me cry,” is a compliment and a success.

3–Writing is reclusive.

Writing is just between you and your thoughts; nothing else. You have no coworkers or teammates to rely on.

3–Writing is sociable.

Virtual communities of writers understand your struggles. Social media connects people around the globe. Local writing groups strengthen that support. A kind, inquisitive word from a stranger in a coffee shop is supportive and reminds you that you are not alone.

4– Writing is frustrating.

Ideas are fleeting. Motivation rises and falls. You slam into the Writers Block wall over and over and over again.

4–Writing is invigorating.

By declaring, “Writing is worth making the time for,” you choose to commit to yourself. You whisk a reader away into a world you control. You paint with words, drawing scenes in your readers’ minds. Extra incentive comes from the release into the world. It is rewarding to receive a positive review on a reading website or from someone who is not your immediate family network and friends.

5–Writing is limited.

Only a few rare people get a publishing contract. Large publishing houses have limited resources of time, printing, ink, and space. If you do not make a living by writing, then you do not have a “real” job. If you just dabble in your journal, you’re not doing any real writing. Without public validation, all efforts are snubbed as “just a hobby.”

5–Writing is limitless.

If expression is your only goal, then laptops, electronic tablets, journals or paper and pen are all friends. Writing anywhere is accessible. If publishing is a goal, the publishing options range from working with a Big 5 publishing house to a small startup publisher. Self-publishing has become mainstream, be it an eBook, paperback or picture book. You own your options and control your future.

6– Writing is work.

Standard books are long. Whatever your measurement–word count of page length–completing something that complex is a massive task. Revisions take time, a lot of time, and are often disappointing. Writing is intimidating.

6–Writing is work.

There is power in writing the words “The End” on your work.

That’s what writing is to me.

What is writing to you?

Sep 16

Falling in Love with Perfect Arrangements

KellysDuring my college days, I became friends with a girl who was valedictorian of her high school class. She sometimes annoyed me with her intellect. After a test in our art history class, she and I milled about and fretted over how our individual results would rank on the class curve. She worried and said, “I think I failed.” Only later, we found out that she scored the highest in the class. This routine repeated on several occasions and I learned pretty quickly that her failing just wasn’t possible.

Besides being very smart, she was tall and beautiful. Guys noticed her and liked talking to her; however, I can’t remember her dating any of them. Devoted to her faith, she wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol and I never saw her break that rule. She and I didn’t have deep discussions about our beliefs, but I knew that she wasn’t Catholic like I was, at the time.

At some point during our undergraduate years, she confided that she was going to be introduced to a man whom her parents had arranged for her to marry. That revelation seemed preposterous to me. We were ambitious young women with career objectives! We were close to breaking free from dependence upon our parents—close to being able to support ourselves. An arranged marriage seemed like a step backwards in time. I couldn’t imagine marrying someone I didn’t choose myself; someone I didn’t know and love.

She began regularly meeting with the man and eventually said she had grown to love him. They married and I hoped her love for him was true. I wanted her to be happy.

When I knew little about arranged marriages, I viewed them as oppressive, stifling, controlling. During my recent attendance at an Orthodox Jewish wedding ceremony, my opinion changed. I saw great beauty in symbolism and tradition and in genuine expressions of love. This particular arranged marriage showed me that helping sons and daughters select a spouse is one of the most precious gifts parents can bestow upon their children.

The parents of the bride and groom had prepared and shared family résumés with one another. Then, their children exchanged personal résumés and became interested in going on a first date. But it wasn’t a typical dinner and movie; instead, it was a sit-down, serious discussion about hopes and dreams, faith, family, goals for the future. The children got to know one another through subsequent meetings and eventually decided that they wanted to wed one another.

Those steps, starting with the exchanging of résumés, may seem too calculating and business-like for our modern, American society—secular or not, conservative or liberal. Culturally we’re accustomed to finding a mate through spontaneity, chance encounters, being in the right place at the right time. We trust in love at first sight—we like what we see, then we take time to evaluate whether or not our love interest has the other qualities we’re looking for in a spouse.

If those measures don’t work, we embrace well-intended efforts by friends who play match-makers and we turn to online dating services. Why not consider the opinions of the two people—mother and father—who love their child most?

My seventeen year-old son recently told me that he was going to go out on a date, that evening, with a girl who I had never heard him mention. I asked him to show me a picture of her because I wanted to see how she represented herself to others. There was something revealing in that picture: pursed lips and a flirtatious, seductive tilt of the head. My son had shared that image from the girl’s Twitter profile. So, I had to wonder what he really knew about her, beyond finding her physically attractive. He admitted that he didn’t really know anything more, except that she attended the same high school.

Aha. Time for a little parental guidance. I told him that, before dating any girl who expresses her interest in him, I’d like him to know what qualities he’s looking for in a future wife. I reminded him that a common faith is very important; at least it was for his dad and me. Customs, habits, traditions, morals are influenced, in our case, by our faith in Christ. My son will have to decide for himself what is important, but I made it clear that my hopes for him are that he’ll consciously look for specific, admirable attributes in the girls he chooses to spend his time with.

With similar aspirations for their children, the Orthodox Jewish parents sought out a family that complemented their own. I’m sure they considered faith, first and foremost, as well as community involvement, personal education, and reputation. I’m not sure if finances were specifically disclosed, but the families’ respective priorities could be determined by the way they spent their time and money. The parents were responsible for helping their children find their intended spouses. But the young couple wasn’t forced to marry. Their opinions mattered.

The groom knew he didn’t have to marry the first woman his parents approved. His older brother had gone on dates with twenty-five different ladies before finding his own bride. The repetitive and time-consuming search may have been slightly frustrating to the parents, who were increasingly unsure of whether or not they would ever marry the elder son off. But they valued his input and supported him throughout the sensitive process.

When my son announced that he had cancelled his date with Twitter Girl, I was relieved and proud. He had taken what I said and thought about it. Then he had the good sense to call one of his female friends from our church’s youth group for additional advice. He described her as having “the best judgement of anyone I know.” She told him Twitter Girl wasn’t the kind of girl he should be going out with. I happen to love this girl from church and used to have her in mind when I would confide in my friends, “If I could only choose who my children marry…”

Now, more than ever, I admire the practice of a closely-knit community of Orthodox Jews who arrange marriages for their children. I respect the groom’s father, who I know as a kind and generous man.

During the wedding reception, I was blessed to see deeper into his heart.

“Your new daughter-in-law is stunningly beautiful,” I commented.

He was well-acquainted with her, smiled at me, and simply replied, “Yes, she is. Inside and out.”

Sep 15

Appendix

After an evening of sushi and wine, I awoke at 1:38 am with a shooting abdominal pain. My wife was at my side in an instant. “Are you alright? Can I get you up?”

“I’ll be all right in a minute,” I grunted. “I think I have food poisoning.” At daybreak, I still had a mild cramp. The following morning was the same.

“Do you think I should see a doctor? I hate calling if there’s nothing wrong.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t hurt. They probably can’t see you for a few days, anyway.”

My internist’s secretary said, “Yes, we can squeeze you in at about 12:15 pm.”

Well, that was easy. In a few hours, I drove over and sat on an examining table to be poked and prodded.

“Well, sir. I think you may have diverticulitis or possibly appendicitis, but a CT scan is in order. I’ll call St. John’s Providence Hospital and set it up if you can drive there now.”

“Yes, sure.” A half-hour later, I was led into a CT, MRI, X-Ray Scanning department. Could I still finish, miss rush hour, and still have dinner? Exam over, a technician handed me a telephone. It was my doctor.

“The exam shows you have acute appendicitis. We’re taking you to Emergency right now for an appendectomy, probably a laparoscopy.” I looked at my watch with a sinking feeling. So much for dinner. After filling out admission papers, I was in a hospital bed for the night, surgery scheduled for 1:30 pm. the following day. Thursday was already shot to hell, so why not Friday too? With countless injections and an IV bag already dripping stuff inside, I would have preferred a medium-rare filet and a well-made martini. An assistant to an assistant arrived to go over details, then another assistant, followed by the surgeon himself with a coterie of followers, hangers-on, and the mildly curious.

Friday morning arrived as expected, and surgery was pulled ahead to 9:30 AM, These guys were serious about getting the job done quickly. Had it been only yesterday, less than 24 hours before, when I asked whether I should call a doctor? Trundled into an operating room, before my wife arrived, someone asked, “Are you comfortable? Well, then, all we’re going to do is ….. “, and I was awake and it was over. Other than my belly still hurting, I wondered a moment if anything had happened at all.

Moved to a post-op unit, my IV fluid bag needed changing every few hours, so rolling its six-wheeled stand to the toilet while still hooked up was interesting. Things were going great until the following day when my insides decided to go on vacation. Ileitis inflammation of the intestines had set in. Accumulating gas and matter had to be removed before any more hamburgers and beer.

There was vague talk of inserting an NG tube, whatever that was, but what did another tube matter? Then I found out it was to be inserted through a nostril, into the back of my throat, and down into my stomach. Think about sliding an oily asparagus spear up your nose and leaving it there a moment. How about an hour? Yes, that gross. I asked how long the nasal-gastric tube process would take.

“Oh, we thought you knew. It has to remain there until nothing comes out, perhaps tomorrow or the next day.”

I was left to lie in agony for the night without the strength to celebrate it might be for only a day or so. I watched the minute hand on the clock creep past every minute of that long night. Sunday dawned without, obviously, any food. How long is it again that a person can go without? This wasn’t a reality show where I could call a timeout if I really had to have a Wendy’s.

The tube connections kept pulling apart and I would find myself lying in a pool of my internal fluids. What fun! My throat was cut and bleeding, my sinuses clogged, my lips chafing into ribbons from dryness. The asparagus spear up my nose now felt the size of a carrot. That afternoon, someone noticed the NG suction container wasn’t getting any stuff in it, which was good, so I was switched to a gravity bag.

Except nothing was going in the bag. It took a while to think about the implications, wondering why I was still hooked up. By seven that night, I decided I couldn’t take another night like the last. I hit the nurse’s call button. “Nurse, if there’s nothing in the bag or going in, please find someone to explain why I still need this god-awful tube stuck up my nose. We might as well argue it out now and not at 1:00 in the morning.”

The surgeon on call for the night finally arrived. Logic prevailed, but I was admonished, “If the bloating returns, we’ll have to reinsert the tube” as if this were all my fault.

“That’s fine with me, by God. I’ll take that chance. Now, please remove this tube so I can go back to recovering and have a chance to sleep tonight.” Do you have any idea how much better a person can sleep without asparagus or carrots up their nose?

By mid-day Monday, I was passing gas, moving bowels, and lapping up hospital soup like crazy, one happy camper. I was finally cleared to leave and my wife drove me home. I was shocked at how careless people were driving. Doesn’t anyone realize how frail the human body is?

A single accident and each person involved might have an NG tube up their nose. Perhaps it should be a requirement to obtain a driver’s license; an NG tube up the nose for a day to see what it’s like. We would all be driving white-knuckled as though on winter glare ice.

Sep 10

Hot Blacktop – Ch. 3 – Saint

Stuart “Saint” Paulson looked down at Sienna, his brow furrowed, shoulders tense, his own headache inviting itself in.

“Stay.”

“I can’t do that,” he replied after a long pause. She didn’t respond. She’d fallen asleep. He sighed, went back to the bed, sat down and looked at the woman who had pulled at something deep inside that he’d forgotten. How to feel. Saint didn’t deserve to feel, not after what’d happened to his sister, Becky. Saint didn’t understand why he agreed to take Sienna home in the first place, let alone make sure he tucked her into bed. He couldn’t take care of his baby sister when she’d needed him the most, so why would he be able to take care of Sienna?

Saint’s head dropped down, chin to his chest, and his self-hatred sliced deep with each breathe. He gazed at Sienna, swept the hair out of her face, and skimmed his finger down to her chin, he couldn’t stop and indulged in the feel of her, her hair, her skin. She wasn’t what he would call a stunner. Sienna was…unique. Right now, her skin was pale and drawn because of the headache. Once she was better, he bet it would be flawless and pink as pale porcelain. Her jaw angled sharply down from high cheekbones, almost to a diamond shape at her chin. What softened her face was the subtle slope of her nose, and her big eyes lined with thick lashes that seemed to go on forever. He noticed she was tall when he held her on the dance floor, maybe six foot two instead of his six foot four. Sienna had fit him snug and in all the right places. She was muscular too, but in his arms, she felt soft and pliable. The way her firm breasts pressed into the planes of his chest as he helped her from his truck and then carried her into the house was like a shot of adrenaline. Saint wanted to take full advantage of all her curves. He jerked his hand away and balled it into a fist.

Saint got up, adjusted himself and left the room. Giggles caught his attention at the end of the hall. He took the stairs faster. At the front door, ready to leave, he stopped and looked up.

“Dammit!” Saint turned around and went to the couch that looked uncomfortably short. His ass met the cushion and his hands went to his leather boots, out of habit, he unlaced the right one first and then the left, yanked them off, and tucked the laces in at the top and set them side by side next to a round coffee table with a glass top. He saw that Sienna was definitely a Pilates fan by the large pile of magazines with the title, whatever that was, along with a taste for southern cooking. He ran his fingers through his hair and kicked back on the couch to stare at the ceiling. He extended his legs, his feet settled on an armrest, and he leaned back onto a flower-covered pillow that felt more like burlap than Goose Down.

As he stares into the dark, Saint tried to convince both sides of his brain to refrain from stupidity. But one side conjured Sienna naked in positions that would make Kama Sutra experts blush. The other side said to get the hell away from her before Saint turned to sinner. Few knew that side of him. Close friends knew his anger simmered just below the surface and he was very controlled in all things. Saint didn’t need to get involved with anyone. The sinner didn’t deserve a good girl like Sienna. He was selfish and angry. She didn’t deserve his darkness, not after the little bit he’d heard about the dick she’d been dating. But that was all he had to give.

Saint sat up and started to reach for his boots but changed his mind and lay back down. Anger started to rise, his guilt locked in tandem with it, as it pulsed in his veins. More laughter floated down the stairs. He crossed his arms and glared up at the noise Christoph caused Megan to make.

His jaw clenched in time with his fists as he tried to breathe through the build-up of tension. Just looking into Sienna’s pain filled eyes brought the guilt and regret to the surface, so similar to the final look on his sister’s face when he’d slammed the door. He didn’t need a reminder of what he buried a long time ago.

He looked at his watch. It was only one-thirty. His mind raced around his day, and he tried to forget about Sienna, not to look too closely at his sudden need to know she was okay. He told himself he would sleep and then make sure she had everything she needed in the morning. Then he would get to the shop so he could work on the bike he’d started to build, that’s all he needed. It was a good decision. He rubbed his face hard, and dug his fingers in as he shifted his bum knee on the couch.

Earlier that morning he’d hosted a slew of manufacturing reps at the track, Paulson Raceway. Several came out to scout talent that he’d been training for this year’s AMA Moto1 and Moto2 Series. The first race was only three weeks away and he had to trim his stable to four racers and two reserves. He yawned. A lot of his kids were going to be disappointed. He yawned again.  Sleep finally tugged him under only to suck him into a nightmare.

“I need some money,” his sister Becky said when he opened his door. Her rancid breath came in heavy gusts. She looked behind her and wobbled reaching out to grab onto something. He stepped back on his crutches so she wouldn’t touch him.

Her body listed the other way as her hand pushed off from the doorframe and he still didn’t help. She continued to sway back and forth.

“I need money.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His knuckles mottled white with the amount of pressure he exerted on the handles of the damned crutches. He wanted to pummel his sister where she stood for what she’d done. “You’re not getting anything from me. Not anymore.”

She started to itch at her arms, her nails dug in where he could see track marks. “Please, Saint. I need…”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” Flames practically fired from his mouth with the amount of anger shooting off him. “You lost that right when you took my one chance away from me. I tried to help you. I would have done anything for you. But you decided your next fix was more important than me.” He was breathing like a bull ready to stampede. “You only get one chance. One. To make it in this life, Sister. That’s it! That’s all anyone gets. You took away mine!” He slams the door in her face.

Saint’s eyes sprang open and he gasped for air.

He sat up and wiped the sweat from his brow. His hands shook. He closed his eyes but could not get that last image of Becky out of his head. She died that night, and he could have prevented it. After a few minutes, he could breathe again, but he was afraid to try to go back to sleep. Yeah, in a couple hours, he told himself, he would make sure Sienna was okay. Then he would get out of her life.

Saint was about to close his eyes but the sound of a car engine alerted him to trouble. It was too early. He reached for his boots.