It's All Vincent's Fault...All That Beauty

For some reason, I found myself thinking about Vincent van Gogh this evening. I'd been outside admiring my yard and its inhabitants. Of the botanical kind. There are just so many greens. I recalled letters Vincent wrote to his brother and benefactor, Theo, about color and its nuances, particularly those found in yellows and greens. He wrote in one of those letters, dated October of 1885,  "I don't mind so much whether my color corresponds exactly, as long as it looks as beautiful on my canvas as it looks in nature."  I still have, after the great purge, a few books about Vincent left in my library. I took them down tonight and paged through them. Some of  the plates are so well-done that it's almost the next-best-thing-to in-person.

I've long had a soft spot for Vincent. I think he must have had a beautiful mind. And, how it's beauty tormented him.  And probably everyone around him. It can't be easy to live in this world when who you are, in your soul, is so antithetical to what you see happening in the world.

Maybe you have a favorite self-portrait of his. That one is mine. His first. For me, it goes directly to his heart. For a brief moment, he captured a part of himself that was vulnerable, but had not yet gone mad from the world's inability to see and feel what he saw and felt. The beauty. The truth of it.

Below, is one of my favorite paintings of his, Interior of a Restaurant, painted in the summer of 1887. I love the greens. Each dash of color on the restaurant wall, the splashes of green in the table bouquets. And the yellows in the floor. I can start to understand his obsession. Taken from inside the dreamlike quality of Impressionism, they almost feel touchable, knowable.

When my younger son was in elementary school, first grade, I believe, he had a fine music teacher who understood that creativity involves all of our senses; that you can feel, even hear, a painting; that paintings can remind us of music and music can reciprocate. One day, Mr. C. had put up a picture of a van Gogh painting and asked if anyone knew who the painter was. Coleman provided the answer and the name of the painting. Sometimes, children have a natural predilection for something or someone and this was one of those for him, art and music being integral to our lives.

I believe art and music should be integral to everyone's life. But, before I start to preach, perhaps I should give my confession.

It was an exhibit of Impressionism at a well-established art museum which shall go unnamed. I had not intended to go astray. It just sorta happened. As these things tend to do. Let's call it temporary insanity, shall we?

Anyway, it was near the end of the day and everyone else had left. Not planned. Just convenient. One lone guard stood sentry at the end of the hall. I had been standing before a particular painting for several minutes. I believe it was, Landscape With Cart and Train,"  by Vincent. I'm telling you, I simply could not get enough of that field.

I didn't arrive at an elaborate plan. It was an almost instantaneous decision to go insane and reach out, just for a second, and touch it with the tip of my finger. Well, I did ask JB to give me instantaneous notice of when the guard turned his head, even for a nano-second.  I wasn't completely insane.

I know. I can hear you gasping. I do know better. I do. I know all the reasons why it's so wrong. I'm telling you, it was just completely and utterly irresistible to me, in that moment. That's why they call it temporary insanity.

I have oft asked forgiveness for that particularly egregious act.  I'm not certain, yet, if I've been forgiven. If it's even possible. Maybe I'm hoping this will increase my chances.

I hope you have time to watch and listen to this video. Almost unbearable beauty. And a song to match.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dipFMJckZOM

And, I'm certain I'm not the first to ask, 'Who's going to fill these shoes?"

Camp Jim: Mama Tried

If this was the summer of 1963, Jane and I would be getting ready to head out for summer camp, better known as Camp Jim. Yes. Camp Jesus Is Mine. We were a mostly-good Christian family so we spent a week there three summers in a row. I suppose we went because Mom and Dad wanted us to socialize, have a bit of regimentation and discipline to at least one week of our summer, maybe get a better handle on this "being saved" thing, but mainly because, let's get real, they probably needed a break.

We packed a few clothes, our swimsuits, our shorty pajamas, hopefully our toothbrushes, and away we went into the wild blue yonder.

We swam, we went to Bible classes, we raised a little hell in the dining hall, and in the afternoon we had group activities. That's where the real trouble started. Me and group activities have never gotten along very well (Mom would have my hide, verbally, for saying 'Me an.' She always said, "There's no such person as Me-an. Always mention the other person first.").  Any waaaay, these group activities were usually athletic in nature. Now, I was an outdoor kid, ran through the woods and fields, loved a mean game of Horse at the hoops or badminton on the lawn, but softball was not my forte. I could hit the ball pretty good, but waiting in line caused untold anxiety and that was where Jane and I began our plan for The Great Escape. We lined up fairly close to the woods, thankfully, the woods creating a cover for which we were eternally grateful. We were good Christian kids, after all. Shelby, our closest friend and cohort-in-crime, helped us hatch and implement our plan. I think some telepathic communication might have been involved, because next thing you know we're hightailing it for the woods, not looking back until we were well on our way to the cabin and safety from numbers.

Once there, we had no further plan and no fear of retribution, apparently. The idea of being free spoke so strongly that the possible consequences of our actions were basically non-existent. We ran, we walked, but mostly we laughed, becoming absolutely giddy with freedom.

And then the counselor found us lying on our bunks, not giving a you-know-what. She exhorted us to mend our non-Christian ways while we pretended to listen, but mostly we were suppressing a pending gale of laughter. Nothing like a good disciplining to bring out the fun. I'm telling you, we weren't bad kids. We were just used to doing summers pretty much our way. Riding horses, swimming at will, looking for the Perfect Place To Build a Fort, and we certainly didn't answer to any dinner bell. We had picnic lunches whenever we got tired of walking around in the woods, picking wild strawberries. We didn't want to play any stinking group games with strangers, especially softball. I just wanted to graduate right to archery, which would have been so fine. But, they didn't let me near anything resembling a bow and arrow.

Noooo, we got KP.

KP meant we had almost free rein in the kitchen. Foolish authority. Shelby and Jane were in the corner washing pots and pans, and I was doing God-knows-what, when they discovered that those marine style sponges make great artillery. I soon joined them and the fight was on. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. How do you give kids who are having too much fun on KP more KP?

Probably a lot of shaking of heads ensued, could even be where the phrase, "Those Enger girls ..." got started, but who knows. I'm speculating.

Suffice it to say, I did not earn a merit badge that summer, nor the next summer after that. I never earned a merit badge. Not even an honorable mention, which Jane eventually managed, somehow. I just sat near the back and listened as the names of pretty much every one else were called, or so it seemed. I might have felt a little bad for my actions, but mostly I was happy to be going home, back to summer my way.

The question remains: why didn't they just send us home?  I suppose the possibility of redemption was always at hand. Mama and Dad?  Nary a word was said, as much as memory still serves me. They knew us, they loved us, we weren't trying to be disrespectful.  At least that's the way we saw it. We were just kids who didn't cotton to rules. I don't think we hurt them. We saved that for when we were teenagers.

I will revisit Camp Jim and share the faux saving of my sorry soul, as well as other shenanigans, but that's for another time. I fear I've divulged too much already.



While I was writing this, a Merle Haggard song kept running through my mind, so here he is with, "Mama Tried":

Edith Evangeline Zaffke Enger

Today would have been my mom's 89th birthday. I've mentioned her in several blogs, and will no doubt do so in several more to come.

Sometime in the mid-1970's,  I came across a poem by e.e. cummings that seemed to have been written for my mother. I included it in a Mother's Day gift I made for her - a scrapbook consisting of photographs from her life and our childhood along with poems and lyrics to songs she was fond of. I had thought of reading this poem at her funeral in 2000, but somehow it didn't happen and so today I want to share it with you as a way to honor her:

If There Are Any Heavens

If there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be (deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

                                     (suddenly in sunlight
he will bow,

and the whole garden will bow)

~ e.e. cummings

You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd

Here are some other things I have learned in the last twenty-four hours:

Always look around the basement or the shed before going to town to buy something. Almost without exception, everything I need, like oscillating sprinkler heads, is already here. It seems I just need to Look. And Listen.

Those blue gardening shoes, a generic version of Crocs, which I found on the porch when I moved in and swore I wouldn't be caught dead in? They are my new best friends.

Always know where your garden hose is before starting to mow. No, I didn't, but I came mighty close.

The delphiniums are in bloom and the exact same color as my garden shoes.

Lost bungee cord for mower's grass-catching bins (If there's a fancy name for them, I don't know it yet) must be replaced. They tend to want to jump off and lay in the grass, about fifty feet from wherever I happen to be. Bungee cords in basement? Oh yeah, they're there.

Squirrels like cracked corn and sunflower seeds. Very much. Must buy new bird feeder, new bird seed,  squirrel-proof. They're acting like they own the place. The mama wrens are not happy. A friend has suggested some possibilities, but admits there are few truly squirrel proof bird feeders. Apparently, there's a motorized version that's supposed to spin when squirrels jump on, thereby thwarting their eating efforts. He says, "I've seen footage of squirrels riding them like they're on a carnival ride."

Cancel any plans for joining a gym. Not that I was seriously considering this. I have a new plan. Doesn't cost a thing. It's called Teresa's Tan and Tone.  BTW: a farmer's tan happens fast.

Oscillating sprinklers wait for no man. Or woman. Running through the sprinkler is still fun.

Always wash off my feet at the outdoor spigot before going in the house.

It's good to have a mud room, with a washer and dryer next to it.

Along with the Norway pines in my yard, there's a majestic looking grove on the back of my land. Next to them, inside the grove of plantation pine, is a small grassy meadow. Two deer have bedded down there recently. And, the bluebells are in bloom.

I love the smell of freshly mowed hay and, what I call, buffalo bales. Despite their newness, they look solid and true. Like they've roamed there a long time. Actually, I've known I love freshly mowed hay for a long time. It was nice to have my neighbor's reminder, though. And, I'm sure glad I don't have to do that ever again. Baling and stacking hay bales (the old-fashioned square ones). It's hard work, ingrained in my ten-year old mind, never to leave.

I'm going to call it a night. Listen to some music.  Maybe the title song, by Roger Miller. Here it is, from the very first season of The Muppet Show, with the Whatnots, of the Gogolala Jubilee Jugband:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=km803HkIE9U

The Night of the Living Cows

A weariness has overtaken me. Not enough sleep is part of it. Taking on a false sense of responsibility is the other. The neighboring farmer has a cow that bellered about every three minutes all night. I thought perhaps I'd left the garden gate open and one had entered and could not find her way out. I finally went out at 1:30 in the morning, to see if she was in distress and if I could do something to help. I saw nothing in the garden and realized the sound was further away, closer to the neighbor's farm than I first calculated. I thought about a night long ago, when JB and I were visiting country cemeteries, wanting to check out just one more before dark. We turned into a winding little road that took us past a small herd of cows, silhouetted against the growing dusk. An old Gary Larson cartoon came to mind and I dubbed our adventure, "The Night of the Living Cows."  Silliness was running rampant, maybe as a way to stave off cemetery jitters at that late hour. Sort of like whistling past the graveyard. We found it, set amongst some pines, and spent a few minutes looking at headstones, then left, just as darkness settled in. This morning, I returned to the house, reluctantly, as I knew the situation was not resolved, but eventually fell back to fitful sleep, around 4:00, just as morning was not-so-quietly breaking. I got up again around 6:30, brewed coffee and sat with anxiety, trying to come to terms with my inability to resolve the cow problem, realizing I could not accept responsibility for the neighbor's cows, but also being very aware, that if I didn't, in these circumstances, who would?  Were they out of town, cows unattended?  Was she concerned about her calf and needing assistance?  Why was I shouldering a burden that wasn't mine?  I was hoping an answer would reveal itself to me, so that, in the future, I would have clearer direction at hand. It rained fairly heavily for about a half hour and then, at 8:30, I went out again and weeded the far perennial bed devoted to irises that had already bloomed earlier this summer. There are a few strays of other varieties that have created a smattering of color, but I had let this go, not being a priority. I thought it would be good to give the late bloomers some room to show off. As I weeded, I questioned my sanity and thought about the biblical story of Cain and Abel. Cain kills his brother, Abel, over some petty jealousy concerning Abel's more fruitful offering. For punishment, Cain was relegated to tilling the soil from whence he came and we, so the story goes, are still paying the price. Or something like that. Anyway, that's where the questioning my sanity came in. As I questioned and weeded, a funny thing began to happen. I noticed how nice the bed was looking, how quickly it was returning to a weed-free state. How I was going to need the wheelbarrow to haul away the weeds. I decided I wasn't crazy after all, at least in that respect, finished my little project and walked back to the house in a happy state of accomplishment. The cow stopped bellering, the sun started to peek through the clouds, then came out in full array. I think there's a terrible pun there, completely unintended. Anyway, I took the rest of the day off. This afternoon, out of curiosity, I googled bellering and found a site devoted to it, really, a forum in which farmers noted that last year, at least, cows were doing some excessive and overly loud bellering, mostly at their new calves. That answered my question. I think. So, what's up with the cow anxiety?  What do they know, that they aren't telling us?

Grape Arbors and Chinese Poppies

Yesterday morning, a spike buck was pruning the lower branches of the fruit trees right outside my living room window. He must be hanging out with the doe I saw. I was so enamored of him I didn't even think to reach for my camera until he had moved on. Having deer present provides a sense of companionship. I can learn from their quiet gentleness. It's become necessary, though, to use a natural repellent on the flower beds to keep them from nibbling, which they did a few nights ago. They are particularly fond of the new buds that are forming on the hollyhocks.

The grape arbor is beginning to fill out nicely, creating a canopy of green that expands and deepens every day. After the Great Jelly Fiasco, at Ansel, in '91, I promised my younger son I would never make jelly again. It was scarring. The grapes had been picked, some were still being strained, glass jars were boiling and jelly bubbling. Then, the phone rang. It was the tipping point that took us right into harrowing. I thought I could handle multi-tasking with the phone on one shoulder, but the kitchen soon turned into a disaster scene. Triage became necessary. Sometime that evening, jelly did get into the jars, the jars were sealed and, eventually, we enjoyed the fruits of our labor.

Time heals all wounds and I'm planning to make another attempt at the mountain. This time, along with the jelly, I'm threatening to make wine, which might be a better and more fun alternative. We shall see.

The Chinese poppies have bloomed in large numbers. I must have at least fifty that will soon be joining these early bloomers.

I also have at least fifty of these getting ready to open. They are part of the lily family. I'm not sure what they will all look like, but beautiful, that is certain.

For the first time in many years, I washed sheets and hung them out on the clothesline to dry. I remembered how wonderful they smell after being in the sun and fresh air. When I was young, we spent many hours hanging clothes out to dry. It seemed like a monumental and sometimes unbearable task, at the time, but last night I went to sleep with the sweet smell of childhood.

There is such beauty in this old world. All we have to do is open our eyes, really open our eyes. It's everywhere.

Sisyphus, Riding Lawn Mowers, and George Carlin

Lest you think my new life is all sweetness and light, I suppose I should come clean with my confession.

Last Friday, I cried. Not that that's highly unusual. I can be a bit of a crybaby sometimes. It was the circumstances.

For the life of me, I could not remember how to start the riding lawn mower. I bought it from the previous owner, with her instructions as well as a manual. I don't do well with manuals and her instructions had disappeared into the ether. I hadn't planned on crying. It just sort of happened. The rain had made mowing difficult for the week or so before we closed on the sale and with all she had to do to get ready to return to Iowa the yard and gardens had taken a back seat, shall we say. The lawn I had seen previously seemed like a distant memory. I knew it was going to be fine, eventually, and as soon as the weather cleared at all, I would get right to it. Right after I started the riding mower.

I wasn't sure how I was going to tackle this problem, as admitting I didn't have a complete handle on everything was not yet an option. My immediate solution was to head to town to buy a push mower - the kind that has a motor, but you still gotta push it - knowing I would need one for touch-ups anyway, once I got the riding mower started. I would see what I could do by hand. I wanted the exercise and knew it would be good for me. Yada, yada.

I was delusional.

Mowing this acreage by hand would be tantamount to Sisyphus pushing that rock up the mountain. Repeatedly. Forever. Or at least until it snows.

I needed a bit of advice on mower-buying and so called Ex #2, knowing he had recently bought one for our son, Coleman. Did I have ulterior motives? Probably. It was time to admit I didn't quite have a handle on everything. He made his recommendations and then I went on to tell him of my troubles with starting the rider. Suddenly, yes, this is one place I legitimately get to use that word, I was crying. One could even say I was sobbing. I realized I had let myself get overwhelmed by all I had to do to get settled in my new home, let alone get the yard and gardens back to their previous state. I knew I had plenty of time to do it, but that didn't matter. I had hit the wall and did not know it until that moment.

He told me to stop crying. Nicely. Kind of. And then we laughed. And then he gave me advice on the mower starting problem. By that evening, I had a brand new Poulan push mower, I'd gotten the rider going and had half the yard done. Now, I have the entire yard done and looking pretty park-like even. Love that riding mower.

I have much weeding still to do in the garden, but am taking it slow, day by day, handful of weed by handful of weed. No, not the recreational kind. The next-year-I'm-going-to-lay-down-a-lot-of-mulch kind.

A friend called while I was in the garden. I told her about my crying jag and then shared with her that my hands were covered in dirt, I was sweating up a storm, I hoped my boys would be over soon so I could pawn some radishes off on them, it was starting to rain and my nose was running. We laughed. We talked. We exchanged tales of losing sleep over our recent projects. Then, back to the tasks at hand.

I will tame this patch of ground, if it takes me all summer...


"Weather forecast for tonight: Dark."   George Carlin.

May 12, 1937 -  June 22, 2008.  Funny man. I miss him.

Where Peace Lives

When I got up at 5:15 this morning and wandered into the kitchen, I noticed several peony petals had fallen onto the table around their vase. I know what you're thinking, "Will she never shut up about those peonies?" Please bear with me, winter will come soon enough. I knew from past experience they were at That stage. The one where they are letting go and the slightest movement will set off a cascade of petals. I gingerly picked up the vase to move it off the glass table and onto the counter where I could manage it better. As I got to the middle of the kitchen floor, the petals started falling and didn't stop until all had fallen except those little buds at their center. They fell onto my bare feet and all around the floor where I was standing. My first thought was, "Oh no."  My second thought was, "I'm standing on, and surrounded by, pink peony petals. How fine a gift is that?"  The smell was so sweet and they felt so soft against my skin.

As I had lain in bed earlier, I prayed. I prayed for an openness of thought and action that would invite in all the goodness my new place has to offer, that I would be receptive to its gifts and messages, that I could shoulder all the responsibilities inherent in it, and along with the garden, the fruit trees, and the flowers, I would grow, as well.

Yesterday, a deer explored the yard as I quietly watched from my living room window. Perhaps she's the one who bedded down on the lawn, right outside the front door, two nights ago. The impression left in the grass was unmistakable. I've seen it many times before in my life, but it had been a good many years.

This morning, as I write this, with peony petals covering the kitchen floor, peace settles in ...

A Plethora of Peonies

From  the movie, The Three Amigos:

Jefe: I have many beautiful pinatas in the storeroom, each of them filled with little surprises.
El Guapo:  Many pinatas?
Jefe: Oh yes, many!
El Guapo: Would you say I have a plethora of pinatas?
Jefe: A what?
El Guapo: A plethora.
Jefe: Oh yes, you have a plethora.
El Guapo: Jefe, what is a plethora?
Jefe: Why, El Guapo?
El Guapo: Well, you told me I have a plethora. And I would just like to know if you know what a plethora is. I would not like to think that a person would tell someone he has a plethora, and then find out that that person has no idea what it means to have a plethora.
Jefe: Forgive me, El Guapo. I know that I, Jefe, do not have your superior intellect and education. But could it be that once again, you are angry at something else, and are looking to take it out on me?

Okay, enough of that.

With the rain falling outside, we closed the deal Tuesday morning. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life," holds a whole new meaning. I'm sitting here in my living room with greenery on every side, and in every imaginable shade, as far as the eye can see. The birds have formed a choir in surround sound and a squirrel is hanging from a tree, trying to reach a feeder. So far, no good. And, it's not like he isn't trying. They are a persistent bunch. Tenacious, even.

Last evening, I walked barefoot around my yard. The grass beneath my feet felt wonderful. There was the remnant of a mud puddle in the driveway from rain the day before. I was sorely tempted to walk through it and feel the mud squish between my toes, as I did about a hundred million years ago, back when I was very young. Next time, for sure.

There was a bird on the feeder outside the kitchen window I had never seen. Didn't get to my camera in time. A new bird book is in order. I also see the Reader's Digest Complete Book of Gardening in my very near future. There is such a thing, right? I believe a friend had one years ago that seemed pretty complete. Lost it in the divorce, along with the goat hoof trimmers. Oh, life can be so cruel. Right now, though, he's in Alaska visiting his son and has seen whales, dolphins and sea lions, all while on an afternoon sea cruise. Between that and his description of a colorful boat boneyard, the stuff photo junkies get their fix from, I have officially stopped feeling sorry for him.

Anyway, back to my land baroness duties.

Today, I tend to the great outdoors. And, the day after that. And the next day after that. For all eternity. Or, so it seems. A responsibility I gladly shoulder.

I think my radishes are ready. She, she being the previous owner, planted a garden before I entered the scene. She didn't know when her place would sell and wanted to be prepared for the summer. I have an already-planted garden behind high enough fencing to keep out the deer. Oh, I forgot to tell you, two deer were here to greet me when I returned from the closing. I introduced myself while they munched on the shrubs defining the property line between the not-exactly-next-door neighboring farmers and myself. Their red coats against all that greenery was a pretty sight. I'm sure they'll be back.

In addition to the radishes, I have beets, carrots, beans, potatoes, onions, squash and cucumbers. Also inside the fence line of the garden are several wild roses, lilac and raspberry bushes, and a whole bunch of peonies. That's Minnesotan for 'a lot.' A Johnny Jump Up infestation is, sadly, going to require some serious culling of the herd. They are pretty, but they are many. Too many. It won't help to move them, because they are attempting to take over the perennial beds up front, also. They need to be dealt with and I hate ending the life of any living thing. Especially something with small yellow and purple faces. This will be hard.

These pretty girls are hanging from a large bush outside my bedroom window. They look like little orchids. Note to self: Add flower book to list. I apparently gave away too many of my books, in an attempt to lighten my load before leaving Santa Fe.

I just took a break and went out, ahead of the coming rain, to pull some very ready radishes.  "Tares" have definitely come up along with the "wheat."  The parable says to let them grow side by side until the harvest, but I don't think he had my garden in mind. Just wishful thinking on my part. I need to wash these radishes and then off I go again. The Johnny Jump Ups are fomenting a rebellion.

Onward.

Moving Toward a New Life

This is my last morning on Upper Whitefish, here on this bank overlooking the lake, where I've been staying for the past few weeks. I will miss going to sleep with the song of the loon, getting up in time to greet the morning sun as it slowly rises on the horizon, changing the colors of the sky as it does so. I was thinking about all the changes that lie ahead of me, the return to a way of life that I grew up with, but put aside for several years while living in Santa Fe, and since, as I looked at the possibilities. A few weeks ago, I bought a refrigerator magnet that summed up my feelings about my return to Minnesota. It said, "Sometimes 'right back where you started from,' is right where you belong." 

I will be sleeping in my new home tomorrow night and waking up to a new way of life. One of the things that I am particularly happy about is that my land includes 147 feet of riverfront. The Pine winds along, just across the road, my place right on an elbow of the river. The former owner created steps leading down to a nice spot beside it with a fire pit. I plan to make this my little sanctuary, a place of respite. The river flows down to where Upper and Lower Whitefish join together. I love knowing that all the beauty, all the goodness that Whitefish holds, is only a short canoe trip away. I won't be leaving this behind, I will still feel its heartbeat, the island.

I didn't want to leave here without expressing my gratitude for having such a wonderful place to be for awhile, this piece of Earth that is now part of my consciousness. For whatever reason, an Alison Krauss song kept running through my mind early this morning as I stood outside and watched the growing daylight move across the water, and so I decided to post it as my way of paying homage to this time. I suppose it was all that thought about heartbeats as I looked out on the island. It was written and first recorded by Don Williams, many years ago, but Alison, who has the voice of an angel, and John Waite, a perfect match for her, have re-created this beautiful song. It just seemed to fit somehow.

P.S. Just as I  posted this, I looked up and saw a bald eagle flying over the water along the bank, right outside my door.

Here's "Lay Down Beside Me"