Do you get it yet?

Hunting season is now over for us and the whirlwind has settled down a little. This past weekend was the first in 6 that we, as a family, were all together. We were at home. No plans. No road trips. Just quiet.
It's not that the chaos wasn't fun, there was always something going on and somewhere to be . We even broke with Thanksgiving tradition this year and headed out to "The Rest of your Life" aka The Hunting Cabin. We went with Dude, Dudette and their family. We shared grocery duty, but that did not stop a discussion between Carpenter and I on the necessity to have Eggs Benny for breakfast, and at least one steak and seafood dinner during the stay. He would say, "Even though Dudette has packed eggs , English muffins, and bacon, you need to pack some too. Trust me,"
Now, to me this hardly seemed helpful , when Dudette and I are trying to watch our figure having lost 20 and 40 pounds respectively over the last three years. I was encouraged by Dudette to pack veggies and fruit to help us abstain from eating the chips and candies. During the long 6 hour drive, where Gem refused to sleep, Carpenter and I discussed once again what I had packed in the way of food, and should we stop along the way. After a couple of hours of debate and banter, he said, "Whatever. You just don't get it."
We arrived in darkness, to the cabin which was as cold as the night air. I crawled between the sleeping bags on the foldout sofa, and tried desperately to catch some zz's Carpenter woke at 5am with an adrenaline rush.He and Dude stoked the fire and headed out for a morning hunt.When I awoke for the second time, I looked out the picture window. I thought to myself,"I certainly could get used to this. i sat up snuggled in the sleeping bags, and stared at the open space. I fell in love with what I saw.
Carpenter and Dude came back not quite empty handed. Along their trek they had stopped and picked shaggy mushrooms. Now it was time to fry them up and serve them with the breakfast of choice"Eggs Benedict". Again I broached the subject of the "eggs Benny breakfast" and was told "Because, that's the way it is.It's what you eat when you're at the cabin." Once again I still didn't get it.
I still didn't get why we had to drive so far just for hunting either. Besides the spectacular view. I mean seriously, what was the attraction? I tried discussing it with Carpenter. He said I wouldn't "get it" til I actually went with him. Okay. It's not that I wouldn't enjoy a hike in the great wide woods, and maybe see some deer, moose or elk. It's that if we did, I'd like him not to shoot it in my presence, which would negate the whole hunting process. Weird huh?I know. I grew up on a farm. I've seen things die. I've shot rifles. I've shot gophers. Lots of them. But I could not shoot a bigger animal, much less watch it. And so Carpenter and I were at wits end.
I still didn't get it.
So he tossed me a Sept/October2004 copy of Bugle: The Journal of the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation. Inside on page 72 is an article written by John Madson called Why Men Hunt.
He writes:

[They hunt] for many reasons, any one of which may be enough. A common one of course, is the meat reason The woods are full of people who claim to be hunting for prime meat, although I've a hunch that this is a standard alibi for busting the first deer that comes along. yet there are some real meat hunters-men who are pretty good at judging meat on the hoof, and who have the patience and experience to carefully pick and choose, and who take pride in the quality of their venison. [There is] the trophy reason. In it's shallowest context , it is simply an exhibitionist effort to display prowess and status. In a deeper context it goes beyond that. Aldo Leopold once observed that "Poets sing and hunters scale the mountains primarily for one and the same reason- the thrill to beauty.Critics write and hunters outwit their game for one and the same reason-to reduce that beauty to possession." Those trophy antlers on the wall may not be only a hunter's efforts to posses beauty, but also to keep something important to him from slipping away and being forgotten. And if the trophy testifies that here is a strong and skillful hunter- well,what's the use in denying it?... Companionship can be a strong element in hunting. For as long as men have hunted, they have banded into special hunting packs with their own taboos, traditions and rituals.And sometimes the companionship and the rituals become more important than the hunt itself, and sometimes the greatest pleasure is in anticipation and recollection, with the hunt only serving to bond the two. [If you were to watch a group of hunters one night] dress their deer, while their companions offered unsolicited advice, listening to the good laughter and easy talk [suddenly you would comprehend, that these men are free.]
Pascal once observed that the virtue of hunting is not in possessing game, but in the pursuit of it. By being absorbed in looking outward for game,"the hunter is absolved of the really insupportable task of looking inward upon himself." And so the hunter's eyes are directed outward instead of inward, and myriad nagging,worrisome concerns are overlain with the illusion of being part of an older, freer world.

He went on to talk about "awareness of other presences" in a very elegant and poetic way. I found myself completely immersed in his article. So much so , that I decided to bring it home and read it again. Carpenter could not have explained it quite like this.I may never fully comprehend the depth and breadth of the of it, but it was a start.
On the drive home "I'm still a guy" blared on the truck stereo, and Carpenter turned to me and said, "Do you get it now?"
Do I get that he's a guy? Yes. Do I get that he's a guy who loves to be outdoors?Yes. Do I get that over the years this world has done is share of emasculating the male species, and the every day pressure of work, and mortgage payments is enough to drive a man to the brink of insanity if he didn't have some place to go and "be a man"? In the words of my dear friend Ferf:
Abso-frickin-lutely.

Letting go...

I was out this past weekend at the ranch, riding my Dad's new horse Ten. Yes, that's his name , obviously inspired by the Bo Derek movie of the same name. Although most agree he looks more like a moose than anything. Friday evening I went upstairs to the closet and brought out a dusty box, in search of something that I knew would fit him perfectly. I had put this box away almost 11 years ago. As I dusted off the box and began searching through the mass of lead ropes and head gear, memories came flooding back to me like an ocean wave crashing on the shoreline.

Almost twenty five years ago I was given a horse as a birthday gift. He was a six year old gelding with a good personality and a strong will. He wasn't very pretty, he had no pretty white markings like, stars or blazes, on his face. He had no pretty white socks on his legs.
He had a really big head, and a big fat butt - quarter horse style. He had really big feet and a thick neck, and all kinds of muscle.
. He was just a horse, I didn't care. He was mine and that's all that mattered. I rode him as often as I could, brought him treats brushed him and, during the summer months, when it was too hot, I'd find him sleeping under the shade of a tree. I'd prop myself up under the crook of his neck and read a book or just enjoy sitting there with him. It was like a movie with a horse and a girl. And that girl was me.
Dad and I would herd the cows together and spent lots of time trail riding. We would fill the saddle bags with our lunch and I'd fill my back pack with carrots and apples to give to the horses.
One summer morning I was out riding through the alfalfa fields, when I fell of of him suffered a concussion, and broken wrist. The cast put a damper on my summer, when it came to swimming but I still rode.

My parents decided at that time to put me in an organization called 4_H which teaches kids about animal husbandry, public speaking, record keeping, and riding. After my first year of riding lessons, pubic speaking and an Achievement day, which was basically a horse show where you showed a judge what you were capable of. I got the drift. Of what needed to be done, lots of work.
During a riding clinic in my second year, my riding instructor, who knew of my horse's past , let us in onitt: He had been a stallion at one point, because his first owner couldn't make up her mind just what she wanted to do with him.He and mare had been flipped in a trailering accedent. And he fell through the ice of a lake one winter, and therefore had a fear of going near pools of water. I also saw the true stubbornness of my horse's character. At the end of our lessons on our first day of the clinic, we went on a treasure hunt, on horseback , we were to find 10 specific objects as we went riding through the bush.
We came to a clearing , and we all decided to run. I knew that I had to hang on, because when Kip got excited, while being with other horses, he would put on a show. And as always, he did not disappoint. We galloped up a hill, Kip began to buck, and he bucked all the way up. Everyone laughed. One of the Mom's who was riding with us, just shook her head, and asked if I was "ok". Of course I was. Kip did this all the time, whenever we were in a group. I just knew how to hang on, I was completely oblivious at the age of 11 that it was bad horse behavior, not to mention totally unsafe!
The next day, we once again worked on side passing, correct leads and flying lead changes. It was hot, and to help with the heat we all stood under the only shade in the corral, and one by one walked out and practiced the exercise. Except Kip and I. Every time I took him away from the group, and began to lope, he would run right back, no matter how hard I pulled on those reins. My instructor asked me to do it again. Again I took him out of the group, I asked him to lope. Again Kip went were he wanted. Back to the group. Again I tried. Again I failed. I was becoming frustrated. So was my instructor.
She stopped me. "GET Off!" she snapped. " Everyone else can do this simple exercise? What is the matter with YOU!", she yelled, "If you can't figure out how to do this, I will show you.You need to make him do what you want. You are the boss. Quit being so gentle with him!""

She mounted and began the exercise with Kip. Again Kip went back with the group. She took the end of the reins and slapped him. Again she tried to do the exercise. Again he went back to the group. The fight was on. The other girls stood with their well-behaved horses, quietly in the corner under the shade, their jaws dropped in horror as the fight unfolded before them.
For 10 minutes I watched as my beloved horse received a much needed attitude adjustment. It was the longest and most embarrassing 10 minutes I had ever experienced.
She finally got off. She walked towards me. I fought back hot tears of humiliation. She handed me the reins.
"I owe you an apology", she said. "You deserve a @#$%# medal for even getting on him, and staying there."
I promised myself at that moment, this would never happen again. Over the next month, I spent three to four hours every day practicing. Ground work, riding, side passing, correct leads, and flying-lead changes. There were days Kip flatly refused to do what I asked. I would become so frustrated, and tired. I'd start over. Again. I would become frustrated. Again I would try. I would fail. I would start over. I would try. He refused and refused.
MY mom would be watching from the kitchen window. She would come to the corrals edge. She'd say,"it's time to take a break honey. Come inside, and have some ice cream and chocolate chips." I would tie Kip to the post and just cry.
It is truly amazing how mother's know when their kid needs a break. And nothing tasted better in those days, than ice cream and chocolate chips. I ate lots of ice cream and chocolate chips that summer.
I bathed Kipper in preparation for Achievement day. The day I had to come before a judge and make my horse do the required riding pattern. I washed the blankets , and shined up my show halter, bridle and saddle. I braided his tail and wrapped a tensor bandage around it to keep all the hairs tucked in neat. I polished his hooves, shaved his bridle path, fetlocks and whiskers.
When it was time, in that show ring, he didn't move unless I told him to. We executed the requirements flawlessly, and even the judge thought he had a soft mouth. My instructor told her - "he does as long as you don't take him out to the back 40". Kip and I walked away with Junior grand Champion that year, a show blanket, a show bridle, and of course the Most Improved horse award. We did it.
Kip became one of the best horses to ever be on the ranch. I loved riding him. I rode him everywhere, up and down the mountain, across the river, through the fields. Never again did I ever fall off of him, and never again did he refuse to do something I asked.
Ten years later he was diagnosed with ring bone in his right foreleg. It's where a bone-like growth occurs between the hoof and ankle, and becomes incredibly painful. Sometimes the growth will fuse itself to the hoof and then he'll be fine. But that wasn't the prognosis in this case.The vet said if I wanted to ride him anymore, I'd have to shoot him up with tranquilizers first. He was finished. I cried a lot that summer.
I packed up all of his bridles, halters bits, leads, and packed it away after Kip was gone, and stayed away from the tack shed. Until now.
I pulled out the show bridle that I had won, and ran my fingers over the familiar leather, and the silver plated buckles. I wiped back a few tears, okay, maybe there were more than just a few. Then I handed it to Dad. We began taking it apart to clean it, and then attach Ten's new snaffle bit to it.
"When did you get this?" he asked.
"The year I won Junior Grand Champion." I said, "It was my show bridle, at every show, competition and Fall Fair afterwards."
"Are you sure you want to do this? You don't want to keep it for show?"
"I'm not going to be showing any horse any time soon, it's okay."
And it is.

What fall brings

It is that time of year again.
The time when the camouflage clothing comes out of its hiding place, and is inspected. Each pair pants, gloves, jacket, shirt, vest, and balaclava, are carefully searched for rips and tears which are repaired by me and my sewing machine, or is just replaced with the latests and greatest new stuff. Then washed in de- scenting, phosphate eliminating, freaking expensive laundry soap. It is carefully hung outside to dry, not put into the dryer, and repacked in a rubber maid tub with outdoor scent discs, bark, pine needles and tree branches. The branches, leaves and needles are selected so as not to create any moisture and thus leave a mildew smell behind. But only that of the outdoors.

Limited entry draws that were purchased and sent away, months ago in hopes of receiving a chance for an exclusive hunt, are now published on the web with the results. All is needed is a hunters number to confirm a win or loss. A hard copy is also received in the mail. The hunting license is renewed and tags are purchased in accordance with the entry results and a few others just in case.
The compound bow is brought from its case and lovingly polished. Time is spent at the local gun range, sighting in the bow after work and on weekends. Broken arrows from the previous season are re tipped and once again practiced with.The binoculars, spotting scope, and tripod are found and tested to endure accuracy or replaced if necessary. The optics are polished and the legs of the tripod are tested for stability. Knives, and scalpels find their way out of sheathes and pouches to be sharpened with care., then packed alongside the rest of the hunting gear.
Cow calls, and bull calls are purchased and used with much fervor and passion as to annoy the neighbors as much as it is to practice the appropriate calls.
The 2007-08 Hunting Synopsis is memorized, then time is spent on Google earth mapping out possible areas of hunting, and my desktop image looses the smiling faces of my girls and becomes that of a large, bugling, trophy elk. Time is spent looking at the calender booking weekends after the full moon , before the full moon, and in between family commitments to spend time out hunting.
Red bull, canned soup, some fruit, tail mix, granola bars, bread, coffee, bratwurst sausages and a small camp stove are packed for a hunting trip.The first aid kit is replenished, and other necessities are packed, along with sleeping bags, and extra clothing.
Time is taken off work to leave early and drive 6 hours to prime elk country, and still only arrive at1 am. Then hours and hours are spent from light until dark on horseback and foot trudging through the bush, over mountains, old cut blocks, small valleys, searching for sign of a herd of elk. Surviving on camp food, long naps on the forest floor, and a strong adrenaline rush, (that I admit, I will never fully understand) in the hopes of tracking and shooting a trophy, and thus filling our freezer with meat. That in itself, is the major reason Carpenter hunts.
Now, I know that my Carpenter needs his time away to be with other men in the out doors, hunting and camping. And I know that he loves it. There is a gleam in his eye that only happens during this time of year, from when the season opens, to when the season closes. Weather he is successful or not, it doesn't matter, it is the being out there in the wilderness that counts- or so he says.
If I ever sat down and took the time to add up his hobby, I think I know the outcome. If I added up the dollars spent on hunting paraphernalia; Then put a price on the hours spent cleaning, practicing, packing, and driving; Added wages lost due to leaving early; Plus the cost of fuel to drive, and calculated the wear and tear on the vehicle, then added the cost of the food eaten; The cost of cutting and wrapping the meat, if a success occurs; Then I would have to conclude, beyond a reasonable doubt, that any elk my husband bags, has to be the most FREAKING EXPENSIVE meat, bar none, that I will ever have the privilege to serve my family at the supper table. And for that, I am grateful.

On Holidays

I first met my second cousin on my Dad's side when I was six and he was sixteen. I was living in Vancouver and we took him to Stanley park and various other places to show him around. At the time I could have cared less who he was, I mean seriously, I was six.
The next time I saw him, was about seventeen years later. I had a stop over in London, on my way home from Greece, and we became fast friends during a light speed, crazy tour of London sites in less than 6 hours, before I had to be on a plane to fly over a big ocean and come home to the farm.
Shortly there after, he came for another visit to Canada, and once again we crammed as much sight seeing as humanly possible before he left for Vancouver.

Ten years after that trip he once again flew over the big Atlantic ocean, this time with his family, to arrive at my door step almost two weeks ago.

It was in anticipation of his arrival that my house had a serious makeover where Carpenter and I worked our asses off. There is truly nothing like the arrival of company and a deadline to give you motivation. Also during this time, I saw a whole other side to my Grandmother, who at the age of 80 has quite a bit of energy, but a definite routine. The very idea of company seemed to irritate her and she would comment,
"The way I see it, they are a few days with me, a few days on the ranch, and then they're gone."
She spent the entire time they were here, worrying about food, and served ham and lasagna together. Odd combination for entres, I know, and then came the saying" We could have ham..."

We spent a day out at the ranch visiting with my folks, we took the kids on horse rides, and hiked to the top of Goat Look- out, just before dark. When we returned home I received a phone message from a friend.
She informed me that her two daughters had head lice, and not knowing they had contracted it,or when, so my girls, having had a play date with one of them, could now be infected. She said, " So you may want to run up to the drug sore and get one of those kits...we're off to Disneyland, so see you!"
Having been apart of the head lice checking team for Gem's school, I know that it does not take just one treatment. In fact, it's a few times, then you have to comb all the nits out. It's not a fun process.
I sat both the girls down and did a check, then I phoned my neighbor Jo to come and check my hair. Thankfully we were all clean.
The last thing I wanted to say to my English company, "Umm, you may want to have a look through your daughter's hair, and yours, and then run to the store and buy a kit.... and then we'll sit down and I'll show you how to look for nits." Yeah, let's pretend we're monkeys.

After 7 days here in K-town, we drove the Coq to Vancouver. We had a DVD payer in the Van we rented. The kids were entertained, and mine didn't get sick. I'll have to buy one of those for the truck. Part way though the drive Gem decided to impress the rels by burping the alphabet. A talent she learned from my neighbours' grandsons.Their daughter laughed and laughed and kept saying "Again, again".
We took a detour and stopped off to check out the sand castles at Harrison Hot Springs. Very impressive, especially for being made of just sand and water. After the kids played by the beach and had an ice cream, we hopped back in the van and finished our trek, at our hotel rooms, downtown on Robson St.

We spent the next three days at Granville Island, Capilano Suspension Bridge, and Third Beach at Stanley Park. At Granville Island they were impressed with the huge public market and we found an amazing coffee shop that served the richest and best latte my cousin had ever tasted. He was served by a young man wearing a flower in his hair, who was very flirtatious. I told my cousin later that he should have winked at the server, he would have gotten more whipped cream. Apparently, that's what he was afraid of.
The next day Carpenter had joined us and we were off to Capilano Suspension Bridge.
Along the way we thought we could do a drive-by of a few sites.
At one point we took a quick turn, landing us directly in front of the docks, and the smell emanating was so foul and disgusting, it was enough to make one physically ill. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's etched on our brains for life. The turn was my fault, I had thought it would land us up in Gastown, and it did, just a few blocks too soon. Ooops!
On their last day we spent the morning in Stanly park on he beach. The girls collected shells, splashed in the surf, and found starfish. The seagulls ate all the chips, and before we knew it, it was time to take them to the airport. Once again, we had crammed as much sight seeing as possible during their stay.

We left them at the airport, rather early, and quickly said our good-byes, before I "got all mushy". Carpenter and I decided to return to Granville Island, and spend a bit more time at the Kids market, and walking around.
I took Jules to the bathroom, and held the door closed for her, as the lock was broken. Just then a huge fart ripped out loud. Julianne spurted out a laugh followed by a little "tee hee". At first I was rather impressed by the volume my daughter created, for she is only four, and then I felt I should chastise her for not being polite and said,"Jules, what do you say after you toot? Honey, we don't laugh, it's not appropriate." After all, we were in public, and there was a line up of women.
"But Mommy, it wasn't me, it was the lady..."
FLUSH. The woman's identity was safe, but still leaving every one in the line up chuckling, just a little.
After the girls played, Carpenter and I had a mocha, and I purchased flowers for my aunt Jo-Jo, we found our way to her house for the last leg of our trip. We spent the evening talking and laughing into the wee hours of the morning.
We spent the night and the next day began our journey home, and stopped at the Vancouver Zoo. Even though it rained, the girls were still happy to see all the animals.

Now we are home, and I am very aware that school starts next week. The girls and I have caught colds. I'm sure it's because we had way too much fun!

The House that Carpenter Built

I am, as ever in bewildered awe of the talent Carpenter possesses when it comes to wood working. He believes in doing the job right, and whole heartedly, the first time. Otherwise, Why do it? Every time he thinks of a project, he focuses his passion , and turns it into something amazing.
In trade school, he made me a beautiful buffet, while everyone else completed night tables. For Christmas Last year, he built a new dining room table for me, finished just in time for New Year's dinner. He made it no less, out of odds, ends , wrong cuts of wood, and a couple of laminated beams that had the wrong "arc" to them. They were scraps from previous job sites, he took his creativity and made a table, not only solid wood(literally) but a unique masterpiece.
It was obvious then, that he would apply that same passion, to his latest project: The Tree-house.
He collected scraps of wood from reno sites, and other construction sites, poured the foundation - which by the way, was two semi circles, one weekend and then began framing.
The deck was covered with torch on, so that it would not leak during the rain, because the bottom will house his tools until we can cover in the carport. Then a trap door will be installed. According to Carpenter, a tree-house isn't a tree-house without a trap door. Carpenter custom made the doors for the tree house one weekend with the help of Tex. They first took planed wood left over from old palates, and then laminated the pieces together. Once dry, Carpenter used the router to make decorative groves over the front.
The roof has shingles that were left over from roofing our home in 2005. There are actual windows by Jeldwen that open and close. They are nicer than the windows than what's in my house. The common phrase heard around here is "It's just a tree-house", but my Carpenter, had to have it done right.
Before the girls and I knew it, the shingles were being nailed on, and the railing was up.

Now it is done. What started as an idea scratched on a piece of paper over 3 years ago,(the likes of which I haven't seen since) has turned into a reality.Carpenter kept the idea in his head. The idea kept growing, and changing, but he wanted one thing to stay the same: The girls were to have a beautiful, tree house, and he would not settle for anything less. I guarantee it's the only one like it in K-Town. My husband is one amazing guy. This is one sweet kick-ass tree-house.
Who wants a play date?

Beyond stress

There is nothing like the impending arrival of house guests to suddenly bring on a boost of energy to do major home renovations. I know that if there was no pressure, things just wouldn't be done. Therefore why not take the 10 week notice and turn it into an opportunity to work our asses off. Mind you that 10 weeks has actually turned into the 4 week scramble, starting off with last weekend when Carpenter and I ripped apart our one and only bathroom. You guessed it. There were some interesting challenges for 36 hours until we reinstalled the toilet. We were graciously allowed to use the neighbors', then, during the night it was a toss up for the kitchen sink or the back lawn. Seriously folks, I do not recommend ever ripping apart one bathroom, unless you have another to use. But it can be done, and I have to gloat;I love my marble tiles and my new deep soaker tub. Even while we were still grouting around tub and floor I would sneak in and lay in my tub, and just lay there. I love my tub, almost as much as my coffee mug. Yes, that bathroom door is about to have a sign on it saying "Mom's room".
There were times though during this process that it tested our marriage, I handed him the wrong tool and drill bit, 3 times. I was utterly "Painful to watch" while grouting. But I know better than to ever question the Carpenter when it comes to building, I just stay out of his way and crack open the odd Corona with Lime and Tabasco sauce for him, depending on the time of day.
Now in less than 3 weeks, we have to build a new vanity, paint, finish the tree house, clean the yard and house. Apparently Gran views these relatives as kin to the freakin' queen, because she's on my ass almost daily to come over and clean my cupboards. Of course because they are coming to see them. The countdown has begun. Where did I put that broom and dustpan?

My cousin and his family fly over a big blue ocean and arrive here for a10 day holiday. They will be spending time with us, and then we are all off to Vancouver for a few days. I am in charge of booking a van, tours, a means to Vancouver, and hotel accommodations.The hotel has to be somewhat central to all the places they would like to see. I'm having trouble finding a place that is central to all the sights on their wish list. All I know is, I'm stressed, I promised my self I wouldn't be, but I am. It has been almost 10 years since I have seen him last. He is my cousin, actually he is my second cousin, but we are pretty close. I want it their vacation to be perfect and wonderful. They are only here for 10 days and I want to enjoy that time to the fullest. I know that it doesn't matter that the treehouse isn't done- just a safety rail would do, I really don't care about new paint or a vanity. Just clean and tidy. That's all I need. I think. I don't know how I should cope. I'm starting to feel like the rabbit in Wonderland!
So I have a question for all you readers out there , How do you cope with stress?
Do you sit in Starbucks and people watch, wondering what her life is like behind the til?
Do you grab your favorite copy of Old English lit, say Chaucer's Canterbury tales and sit in the middle of an open field and read it out loud?
Or, like me, do you wake up at 4:45 am, because you can't sleep, strap on your water bottle, tie up your favourite runners, and hit the pavement, for a long run. No kids. No Phone. No Computer. No Ipod. No talking. No traffic. Just me. Just my legs. Just my feet hitting the pavement until I can't run any more. And it feels good.
Later in the morning, over coffee I literally fall apart explaining to Ferf why it is that I NEED to wear waterproof Mascara. Go figure. Guess I didn't need a good run. I needed a good cry.

Things neighbours do.

I have neighbours who are retired and spend quite a bit of time on their yard. Yes, its beautiful. The grass is meticulously cut exactly every three days. I'm sure I've seen Mr. G out there with a pair of nail clippers and a ruler. Thea's flower boxes on her deck are filled with huge flowers, I've asked her if she spikes her water with Miracle Gro, but she insists that its just water. Right. Part way through the summer she hands over cukes and other veggies that they don't want anymore. It sometimes makes me wonder why I should plant a a garden of my own. The years I did have one , Thea would look out from her balcony and remark on how something was growing particularly well almost everyday. Most recently, she has been remarking on how beautiful my petunias are looking.
My petunia bed borders the lane that separates Thea's house from ours. When we first moved to the house , it was just a strip of lawn with enough of a mound, that teenage boys could perfectly catapult their bikes through our carport and down the driveway and back down the lane. After catching them, Carpenter and I decided it was high time we re-landscaped that part of our yard. It was a slow process, and everyday or so Thea would remark on how it was coming , or asked when would it be finished. I had decided to plant tulips in it for the spring, acquired 140 bulbs and planted them. That was an excruciating job, after I was done, Thea said,"Did, you remember to plant them all tips up? Because they won't come up otherwise."
Thea spent the spring watching for the tulips to come up and every few days counted them. One day, as I came home from walking Gem school she said, "I stopped counting at 79."
Thea and Mr. G. are pretty good neighbours for the most part,they are friendly, and watch over our place when we leave on holidays. In fact they will give us the make and model of every car that comes to my driveway, if they think its necessary. Once a couple of summers ago, we had the blinds up and windows open because it was hot. The next day Thea comes up to me and says," I see you had your sewing machine out last night, what were you sewing?" Carpenter and I decided we would one night leave all the blinds up, windows open, and have an orgie on the dining room table, to really give them something to talk about.
Most recently however, they have pushed the boundary of "friendly neighbour". My petunia bed was filling with weeds and I really didn't have the time to weed it. Let's face it, who really likes to weed anything? I am not a Green Thumb by any means, in fact, my entire philosophy on gardening is "If I happen to forget to water or fertilize a plant, it just shrivels and dies quietly." Ironically, most of my flowers do quite well, and so do the weeds. While I was away, last weekend, Thea and Mr. G. took it upon themselves to be my "weed fairy" and weeded my entire petunia bed. When I returned home, Thea was standing on her balcony, and said, "I see you had a visit from the weed fairy."
I thanked her for doing the job, but, I became irked by the whole thing when I saw weeds dying in the grass I had planted next to the petunia beds. The evidence was clear that they had not only weeded the petunias, but had sprayed the lawn with "killex ".