Sow There!

My birthday trip to the Mendocino Coast was much needed. However, it also marked the end of a long and fabulous run for the champagne-colored Barbie car.
Somewhere around Orr Hot Springs, we realized the transmission fluid had long been completely dry on a road that made Honey Run Road look like a straight-away.
But luckily I was able to still drive it to Redding, where the Bureau of Automotive Repair gave me $1,000 to have it crunched.
(Three days after cashing the check, a letter arrived noting the state no longer had money for the car-crunch program).

(Alas, this photo was taken at the auto dismantler in Redding, after the Saturn's last ride).

Before the car's untimely demise, I picked up some part-time work to save for a newer car, and had already cut all non-essential expenses, except for pinball.
When the Barbie car went kaput I was riding my bike, working a lot and arriving home during the last half hour of sunlight.

I've missed a lot in my garden these past several weeks.
Tommy dutifully kept track of the garden.
I'd come home at dusk, slather on some bug spray and do a garden tour. Often he had been waiting, fingers dirty and sweat glistening on his tan forehead.
With pride, he pointed out the hedges he had trimmed (not exactly the way I would have chosen), wandering mint plants he had subdued and various plants he had relocated.
While I had been away, the umpteen tomato plants had started to produce, recently tallying a whopping 40 developing green orbs.

The surviving primrose is mysteriously blooming in June, the towering foxglove is on the way out and the star jasmine has decided to climb from the arbor into the birch tree.
Like a workaholic parent, I felt like I had missed out on the best weeks of my garden's life.
My dad loves to wax philosophical on most things. One of his Dad-isms is that gardening is a constant, slow process and that most things that need to be done are accomplished in just a few minutes of work each day.
Somehow, I need those few minutes a day even more than my garden does.

Driving without style
Driving a stylish car is not something upon which I place high value.
Most of my rides have been gifts or hand-overs from family members.
Needless to say, I was out of my element when shopping for a car.
My first car was a 1975 Gremlin -- beige with a darker beige "racing stripe." It served me well through college, and through my first many years working at the Enterprise-Record.
During the early 1990s people mistook the Gremlin for a Pacer and a couple of times people yelled "Wayne's World" when they spotted me cruising around town.
Near the end, the driver's side door of the Gremlin was held closed with a belt and I had to shimmy over the bench seat to get to the driver's side. The vinyl seat cushion was peeling and frequently I would crawl out with foam balls on my behind.
When the brakes were metal-on-metal I drove the car to a local scrap metal yard, where I received $16.50 in cash.

Another vehicular gem was the 1980 Lincoln Continental that set me back $600. Other than the 13-miles-per-gallon, that car was a great conversation starter and could comfortably sleep a family of three. It had both leather seats and working air conditioning.
Having driven several cars to their bitter end, this made me that much more cynical when shopping for a replacement car.
Many of the ads for used cars stated that the oil had been changed every 3,000 miles.
However, it makes you wonder, if a car was so well maintained, wouldn't you first offer to sell it to a family member?
Then there were the intriguing stories about the car seller needing to leave town immediately, or trade the car for a fishing boat.
One woman even told us she had broken up with her boyfriend two days before. She and her former sweetie had bought the car together and she wanted to unload it dirt cheap out of spite.

When she failed to show up for our appointment, I was tempted to call her and tell her congratulations for the reconciliation.
Then there are the disclosures such as: "needs tuning."
I interpreted this as a cracked engine block.
In the end, I decided to rely on feminine intuition.
The couple who sold me the car seemed very nice, and even let me pillage from their pluot and apricot trees.

Plus, they had receipts showing they changed the oil every 3,000 miles.

With all things, even car shopping, there are hidden blessings. During that time that I was riding my bike, I learned that I have really nice friends, and a great Mom, who helped me with things including big grocery shopping and driving to look at cars.

Often, chapters in our lives come and go even if we don't make any life-altering decisions.
This is the case with the eastward migration of my best friend, who until recently lived next door with her soon-to-be 12-year-old and their English setter.
A bunch of us helped her this week hoist the remainder of her belongings into a ridiculously bright yellow rental truck.

(Tommy and our friend Jim were the master packing team, finding ways to cram all of my best friends' belongings into this ridiculously yellow truck).

I'm actually not one for long, sentimental good-byes. But I had the time to say what I wanted to say.

We met in 8th grade in Mr. Furtado's math class about 27 years ago. I remember I was wearing French braids that day, and one of those white, long-sleeved T-shirts with a big rainbow across my young bosom.
Painfully shy, I had to practically beg her to come over to my house after school.

We've had an informal garden swap at the office for years. Mostly this involves Sally or other co-workers bringing in their excess garden bounty.
I often get first pick, mostly because when I see them coming with boxes of garden goodies, I race over to their desks and pretend like I am just there to say hello.
After we newsroom scavengers have pocketed plenty, the excess is taken to the lunchroom and a "take some" sign is attached.

This is really a great way to get your grub.
But not the only way.

As the self-proclaimed garden goddess of the newsroom, I'm often in the loop for garden-related news.
Jeremy Miller, who writes a cool online blog at: http://www.norcalblogs.com/sustainable, has once again established a series of garden swaps.
Now in its third year, the events provide a gathering point for people with more produce than they can eat themselves or hoist upon their coworkers.
At the local garden swaps, people are encouraged to bring their excess fruit and vegetable and put them out for others to share.

Miller described it as a "low-budget, home-spun affair."

My small garden is probably looking the best it has in a decade. Perhaps this has to do with getting older. After so many orbits around the sun, you begin to remember things, like what grows well and where.

Part of the success can be attributed to the new cat -- the pocket gopher abuse to the lawn has none-so-mysteriously disappeared.

Also, a humongous pile of mulch delivered about two years ago has slowly been distributed and has done wonders to keep the soil moist and keep the weeds out.

Or maybe it's just that I'm learning to appreciate the garden for today, rather than comparing it to some misty memory from the past.

However, that "moment in time" pretty much ends now, because only the hardy plants will be able to survive the onslaught of Chico's summer heat.

For some reason, we've again gone crazy planting tomatoes.

About a month ago I celebrated my 40th birthday, with the customary amount of lamentation.

A reader named Fran sent me a beautiful note, typed out on flowery stationary, regarding her views about turning 40.

Thanks Fran. Your note does put some things in perspective.

NOTE FROM FRAN:

Dear Heather:

Congratulations! Imagine being 40 again?? I remember being SO mad at being SO old -- felt like kicking a can all around the block! Family laughed at me -- but I sure didn't like the feel of being "40."

Sister gave me a bright red silk nightie -- supposed to make me feel young again -- but can't say it worked

Oh my! Then came 50 -- smooth as silk -- hardly gave it a thought -- too busy working in our own nursery.

Then at 60 -- began to feel a bit proud of my age! Not a bad year at all!

Then 70 -- retired and loving every minute of it -- actually had time to paint and play my organ and garden.

Then at 80 -- alone by then, the sons kicked in and gave me a big birthday surprise party at Spinning Wheels old -- separate dining hall -- Fun!

Then -- stay with me -- just passed my 90th birthday, and this time son had it in his own home -- a large enough place -- but figured I had out-lived all my old buddies. It was standing-room only, and I had dreaded the idea but loved it!

By this time I had remarried -- an old family friend -- as interested in gardening as I always was -- fun to be with -- go with -- Best time of my life?

We laugh more -- eat out more -- go on the spur of the moment -- just what youth would like to do but can't afford?

Oh, I might like being 40 again -- only -- IF -- I could keep the knowledge these last 50 years have given me?

I take time to enjoy everything nowadays -- am planting another beautiful flower garden this year. You really should come to see it in mid May or June.

Fran

I'm getting to know a darker side about my new cat. I've written recently about his ongoing conquest of the local underworld, bringing in high numbers of pocket gophers and devouring a scrub jay.
Regarding that column, a woman wrote in a letter to the editor noting how dangerous cats can be on the local bird population.
I could see her point. I've never known a cat before who was this into hunting. My first cat brought in a few field mice and a memorable lizard she hid in my shorts. But Moxie has out-hunted both of those cats combined in just a few months.
The other morning I was trying to hold onto those last eight minutes in bed.
I heard a flump on the hardwood floor.
Tommy came in and said in astonishment "Moxie got a squirrel. Get up. You have to look at this."

I peeked up over the covers enough to see the dead carcass of a mid-sized to small squirrel, splayed out next to the rug.
Not wanting to acknowledge the situation, I rolled back over and covered my head while Tommy went to get something to wrap it up.
While he fetched, I could hear Moxie prancing around his kill, dancing like a football player in the endzone.
Tommy said he was surprised Moxie could even drag it in, obviously to present to me.
This is all way, way too much killing. At first it was kind of cool, those pocket gophers that had torn up my lawn for 12 years would be diminished. But at this point, I'm wondering if my cat is evil.
I hate to admit it, because I'm afraid I might get another letter to the editor for my ignorance, but at first we were actually rewarding the cat with treats when he brought in another rodent.
But now I want to spray the cat with vinegar if he brings in another kill.
I don't know if there is aversion therapy or something you can try with a cat that has virtually lived on its own for the first year of its life.
Hmmm.
One reader already sent an e-mail about giving him a bell, which we have periodically, until his break-away collars disappear after some tree-climbing adventure.

Friday night I was at the movies and thought of calling my mom. But the movie was about to start and I thought about how annoying it is when I am forced to listen to other people's inane cell phone conversations in public places. So I turned off the phone.
Just moments later, my mother was frantically trying to call to see if I would drive up to Redding.
By the time I talked to her after the movie, her dog Puppers had died.
It's not trivial when a pet dies.

Understandably, we have time off from work when a close relative dies. We gather around our loved ones and share stories. We make long journeys to see the remainder of the family. We are encouraged to take a few days off and people send us cards and bring us trays of lasagna.
When furry friends die it is sometimes even a greater loss, because our pets are a constant companion.

I think it's common in relationships that the very things to which you were initially attracted sometimes become a source of annoyance.
For years I have lived with underground burrowing visitors. At one point I believed that I had both moles and gophers in the small area where I continually tried to grow a lawn.
My best friend next door had a cat for a while, and we were jubilant when he caught what we believed to be a mole in her tangle of English ivy.

Before adopting the gray kitty, which I named Moxie, I distinctly recall thinking of all of the attributes I wanted in a cat -- healthy, cuddly, didn't beg for treats, loved me the best, etc., etc.
On that list was also "rodent-ready."

Even though my love for the new feline had begun to fester, at several points I was vacillating on whether or not to make the big plunge.
The turning point was when I saw the yet-to-be-named cat over by the mulch pile with his paws in a dominant position on top of a very scared mouse/rat.
That was it. Not only did I recognize my love for him, I recognized his ability and intent to be useful.

One of the oodles of funny and cute things about my new cat, Moxie, is that he sleeps like he's saving space for friends.

He also sleeps very soundly. Given that he was mostly a stray when he "found us" I would figure he would sleep more protectively and jump awake when I pet his exposed stomach.

Yet, you can tell by the sprawl below, that is not the case.

Last week we took a couple of days off and went to the Mendocino Coast. Taking a couple of days off isn't always a no-brainer. Before the car leaves the driveway, it seems like such a hassle to load up the car, check the car for rough road readiness, make sure you've packed clothes for any weather condition and checked the bank account for monetary limitations.

I almost talked myself out of the adventure, thinking maybe a Thursday and Friday off watching bad daytime TV was just what I needed.
However, my mother, and other very important people in my life, told me that if I did not do something special for my 40th birthday, the regret would haunt me at least until a week from Tuesday.
It rained.

One of the stops was at the a thrift store on Highway 1 in Ft. Bragg run by the Mendocino Coast Human Society. In addition to making purchases that made us feel glad to be supporting the welfare of animals, I scored a much-needed rain coat that helped suppress grumbling for the remainder of the trip.
Like any day -- and especially for road trips -- it's important not to have expectations. Having expectations often guarantees resentments.

With my spiffy new/used raincoat, visiting the botanical garden was a drizzly adventure.
The neatly manicured and mulched paths were protected from the sea wind by shore pine groves, towering rhododendron trees and miscellaneous overhanging greenery.
I had found a place nurtured by people who loved plants as much as I do.
We spent several hours remarking how fortunate these folks are who live along the coast, where so many plants have a chance to really strut their stuff with the constant moisture -- of which I had previously complained.