Taproot

Lady (Bug) Luck

My roses are getting ready to bloom.  That means daily visits to the garden to look at the dark red foliage and count the buds...and the return of the never ending battle with aphids.  This weekend, Sharon and I decided to ratchet up the conflict by bringing in some reinforcements.  Lady Bugs.

If you didn't already know, those pretty little bugs are supposed to be the Red Horsemen to aphids.  They slay.  They maim.  They take no prisoners.  They are ruthless killers, polka-dotted predators wreaking destruction in the soft-bodied bug world.

So we bought a few at the nursery.  About 1500 of them give or take.  They came in a little cardboard container with a mesh top, and as we took them home you could see them massing at the edge of the battlefield, little legs churning.  I could almost hear the little Mel Gibson lady bug flying up and down the ranks, riling them up in a frenzy of blood lust.

But the moment was'nae right.  Nae, fer utmost carnage ye must wait fer dusk.  (That last bit was in a Scottish accent.)

And we waited.  We stared across the killing fields.   The aphids cowered in anticipation of the death that was surely coming to them until, in the waning moments of the day, the savage lady bugs could finally be released.

It was time.  We opened the container and our mercenaries came rushing to join the fray.  I had a moment when, hands covered in red armored warriors, I thought:  My luck is about to change!  After all, one lady bug on your shoulder is a harbinger of good things and I was covered in them.  We placed a few strategically, flanking the awful aphids, but ultimately we just ended up scattering them near the most important locations.  Then we went inside and let them go at it.  That night, I dreamed of victory and, in the morning, I ran out to see what we had wrought.

The aphids were all still there and there wasn't a lady bug in sight.  Maybe the wind blew them away, Sharon speculated, a theory debunked by the lone lady bug who rode my windshield at 45 miles per hour almost all the way home from church.  Lady Bug Luck, it appears, is a fickle fighter and, apparently, my aphids just weren't worth the effort. 

There are times when Fate, having done an otherwise bang-up job of making me feel star-crossed, tips his hand and lets me know he's just screwing with me for the hell of it.  At those moments, I realize I am not driving, that the jolts and turns have nothing to do with me.  This is just the ride I'm on and it will be over soon.  So when the bottom drops out, the best thing to do is put my hands up in the air, scream like an 8 year old and collect my silly picture on my way to the next thrill...

This morning, I awoke to a Monday melee of bad news e-mails.  But I am happy.  Luck is what you make it.  If it refuses to sit on your shoulder, you go out and get some more.  And if that doesn't work, you yell into the wind at your face, try not to pee your pants and hope the camera doesn't catch you looking stupid.

Life is a roller coaster, after all, designed to freak you out a little and get your adrenaline pumping.  If it doesn't, what's the point in riding?  Bring it, Fate.  I'm loving it.

Some days...

I have made my life's work a habit of writing things in random places and forgetting about it.  Some of my most important thoughts have been memorialized on scraps of paper, countless unfilled notebooks and flash drives.  While a scattershot approach to developing a body of literature, it occasionally has the benefit of providing me with moments of retrospect at unexpected, yet entirely appropriate, moments.  At such moments, I often find messages of hope in bottles set adrift from the distant shores of my past.  Today, in desperate need of a missive of forgotten wisdom, I found this:

Some days we find beautiful The way the wind swirls scattered paper, The way the sun sits precisely so on a fencepost. Some days we find ways to find beautiful The happy family behind the screaming child, The blessings set in silhouette by sadness. Some days beautiful finds us Sitting so close, hanging words on every second We have left. On days like these, Beautiful happens On us without warning or fanfare And we are unaware there is more to it than us, That we are not alone together, That there is weather and wind and sadness. Some days, on days just like this, We exist within, without and beyond What could have been Beautiful.

A poem from another time, posted with others on the tritest of websites, but relevant nonetheless.  It reminds me I am thankful for the moments in the past week when, despite my struggles, Beautiful has happened upon me sitting in a dark place.  Loving gestures from my wife.  Affectionate words from friends.  More importantly, it reminds me I have said things that have mattered...that still matter, even when taken in a different context.  I have done many things badly, but I take comfort in this one thing:  that I have always been good at finding beauty in the damnedest places.

So it is I find myself, recommitted to finding Beautiful again.  Soon.  Perhaps now.

Macro

During my senior year in high school, I had the pleasure of studying with one of my favorite teachers: Mr. Blek.  He taught AP History and AP Economics, and was immensely popular, mainly due to the fact he swore in class and was the PA announcer at football games.  But I liked him because he was the first teacher I ever had who didn't seem to view my intelligence as a threat to his existence.

I know you're smarter than me, Tittle.  But if you're gonna pass this class, you still need to learn the shit I know.

And I did.  I learned to love History as a living breathing organism, not a series of dots on a linear chart.  That love served me well during my bright college years, blossoming into a full-blown romance in the hallowed ivy halls of university.  But when Mr. Blek called me out, he wasn't taking me to task over history.  He was talking about his passion.  Economics.  A subject that, for any number of reasons, I was not pre-disposed to understand.  Yet, under his animated, and sometimes vulgar, tutelage, I learned to love that subject, too.  More of a fleeting affair, really, but it lasted long enough to pass the Micro Economics AP test with the highest marks.  A five.  I fell a little short on the Macro Economics test, coming in with a three...good enough to pass, but not good enough to brag about.

You see, Macro is about the big picture, about how markets intertwine and about how economies rise and fall.  To me, it seemed too impersonal, distant.  Macro involved to much objectivity for the opinionated brain of a gifted 17 year old.  Nope.  Micro was more my speed.  Down and dirty, in the trenches.  Just the way I like it.

It should come as no surprise then, that I now make my living traversing the treacherous straits of micro-economies in Los Angeles.  I am well-versed in the dreams and fears that businesses have.  On a daily basis, I use terms like "soft costs", "bottom line" and "diminishing marginal returns".  Mr. Blek would be proud.  I learned the shit he taught pretty well.

I am getting better at Macro, too.  But these days, it means something different.  The Macro I'm learning is not about gazing at things from a high level.  It is about getting very close, holding a camera very still and trying to catch a fleeting flash of flower looking spectacular.  It my not be what Mr. Blek had in mind, but one thing hasn't changed.  Every now and then, I capture an image that sends me a message I have heard before and will probably hear again:

You're pretty smart, Tittle.  But you still don't know shit.

Shock

A couple weeks ago, Sharon and I concluded our ongoing debate about what to plant along the wall next to the entry to our yard.  During our weekly trip to Lowes (We're cool like that.  Get over it.), I caught a whiff of a scent I'd forgotten.  Chasing some far off childhood memory, I ended up in front of a stand of jasmine in bloom.  Truth be told, if asked to name the scent, I would never been able to place it.  But standing in front of those 5 gallon containers, it all came rushing back to me...pink and white flowered bushes sprawling over fences.  Perfume hanging heavy in the hot desert air. 

Hello, jasmine.  Haven't we met? 

I shared a private moment with them.  Funny, I'm sure they were there for many of the bad times in my childhood, but none of those came to me.  Instead, they were the backdrop to a thousand summer bike rides; a screen behind which to hide from seekers, or to steal a kiss.  Jasmine.  Smell of boyhood summers.

So good to see you again.

Snapping out of it, I had a brief conference with Sharon.  She had her own jasmine memories and, before I knew it, there were five bushes in the back of the FJ Cruiser.  A couple hours later, they were looking beautiful in their brand new spot by the wall.

 All was well...at least for a few days.  Until the beautiful flowers suddenly started looking like this:

For a moment, we worried they were dying.  But, upon closer inspection, it was clear they had gone into shock.  Before gardening, I had never thought "shock" applied to plants.  However, a year and a half into my life as a gardener, I have learned differently.  All too often, those lovely, happy plants at the nursery react badly to being put in the ground.  Traumatized by the change in environment, they droop.  They wilt.  Sometimes, they seem to have died.  Sometimes, you can fix this by giving them lots of attention.  More times than not, you just have to trust they'll get over it and leave them alone.  Usually, they pull it together and get back to doing what they do.  Grow.

I can relate.  This is the state I go into almost every Monday.  Ripped from the beauty and happiness of my weekend, I find myself thrown into an environment I feel I have no choice but to accept.  I become listless.  I slouch.  Some days, like today, I feel as if I might die from the shock to the system.  I do not need more water.  I just need to be left alone, so I can adjust and get back to doing what I do.  But unlike a transplanted shrub, I don't need to be there forever.  There is home to return to and, when I get there, enough light left in the day to go out to the garden and let the day seep out of my system.  Some wine.  Some cheese.  A hug and a kiss beneath the myrtle.

The day has worn on me but, if I'm lucky, someday I'll catch a whiff of jasmine and the only thing I'll remember is how wonderful it feels to come home.

Life in Context

Everywhere I look there is Spring.  After an abnormally cold and rainy winter, the weather has finally settled into the sunshiney 80s and the world around me is responding with a burst of new growth.  In the garden, there are flowers that weren't there two weeks ago and there are tomato seedlings sprouting in little pots on my dining table.  Tis the season of promise and new beginnings.

Yesterday I came home early.  I was feeling sick and needed to rest.  But, before I crawled into bed and shut down, I took a walk through the garden and had a good look around.  Shrubs and perennials, planted in uncertainty and expectation, were making it clear they are here for the long haul.  Annuals, determined to make the most of their limited time, were blooming furiously and there were birds working on nests in the trees overhead.  There is a dizzying variety of color and song, yet they are unified in their message:  Life is coming.  Life is here.

They are unified in one other thing, as well.  Not a single plant or creature out there has any idea of the role they have played in the rejuvenation of my life and marriage.  Even if those plants were sentient, there is no way they could know the simple fact of their existence would provide the hope Sharon and I needed to get through the winter of our discontent and see this Spring together.

I am struck by the thought that, in many respects, we are all similarly ignorant of our importance to the bigger picture.  We live because it is our instinct to do so, rarely realizing the impact this function of biology has on the world around us.  Life is just what we do.  Yet, if we are ever lucky enough to be gifted with greater perception, we might realize there are people to whom our survival matters.  In the damp and despair of darkness, they hope for our happiness.  And, when it blooms, their lives are better for it.

Today, my father and younger brother celebrate their birthdays.  When taken in context, I'm sure the significance of the event is different for each of their lives.  But for me, it is a chance to take pleasure and joy in the role they have played in mine.

Daddy and Daniel, my life and the lives of others are better because yours continue.  I love you both.  Happy Birthday.  

Part II: Things I didn't know...

...before gardening.

• Ants exist to piss us off.
• I had no idea what "pinchis babosos" really meant until I started worrying about slugs.
• We should just call bird feeders "squirrel feeders" and be done with it.
• More on squirrels: we can learn a lot from them.  They know what they want and don't stop at anything to get it.
• Grass is a weed that has figured out how to kiss our ass.
• A rose by any other name will still attract aphids.
• Thinking something is pretty doesn't mean you shouldn't prune it.
• When you say you're finished, you have no idea what you're talking about.

 

Cutting back

A few days, I briefly mentioned giving the fig monster a winter buzz cut.  I have been waiting for some stroke of genius to strike me so I could tell you more about that.  It seems like one could really spin the tale into a fabulous fable.  But alas and lackaday (I've always wanted to write that!), genius has clearly been detained elsewhere.  So here's the short version:

I cut this --

...back to this--

...and used the wood to create all this--

...and despite all that, the fig monster still did this--

 
 

There's a lesson in there somewhere.  I'm sure of it.
 
 

The things we leave behind...

My older brother, his wife, and their two toddlers were here for the weekend.  As is usually the case with visits involving small children, not to mention a cornucopia of animals of various sizes, there were some stressful moments.  There was some childish willfulness.  There were some missed opportunities to say "Please" and "Thank you."  There were some tantrums.  There were some patience tests.  And there was a whole lot of noise.  But, if you went looking for them, there were splashes of color beautiful enough to take your breath away.

One of my favorites involved giving my 3 ("and a half!") year old niece, Katy, on the "what smells good in the garden" tour.  We started with the Corsican mint, which has a sinus-clearingly powerful mint aroma, and I had her rub her hand in it.

Wow!  It smells like mint!

From there, we moved to the myrtle bush, where I crushed some leaves and handed them to her.

Wow!  It smells like mint!

For future reference, the corsican mint is not the best place to start the tour.  Once you touch it, everything smell like mint.  Rosemary, oregano, jasmine, lavender--my niece now believes they ALL smell like mint.  I hope that doesn't screw her up later, because it made me smile.  She seemed to enjoy it, too.  However, her favorite garden activity by far, was picking flowers.  She spent so much time wandering from plant to plant, looking for the prettiest ones.  Once she'd put together a suitable bouquet, she announced, "These are for my mommy!", and ran off to deliver it.  It was a moment that made my heart glow like sunshine.  It must have made her mommy happy, too, because those picked flowers found their way into a glass of water on the dining room table.   

They all left today and, inevitably, there was a call after they'd been on the road for a while, asking about the things they'd left behind.  An iPod.  Some portable speakers.  But as we walked through our newly quiet house, I noticed there was something else that hadn't made the return trip.

 

I'll put the speakers and the iPod in the mail this week.  For the flowers, a picture will have to do.

A lesson I would like to unlearn...

A year ago, Sharon and I took a trip to Mexico.  At the time, we had no idea if we'd stay together.  To be honest, I think we were just going because our therapist said it might be a good idea.  It was. We just got back from an amazing repeat trip, an anniversary, as it were.  For a week, we did nothing but lie on a beach, go to happy hour in a bar overlooking the ocean and eat incredible food.   It was a much needed break, but by the end of the week we were ready to come back home.  We missed our dogs.  We missed our house.  We missed our garden...all of which were being watched by my younger brother, Daniel.

We arrived home after dark, exhausted, where we were greeted by a happy flurry of dog, cat and brother.  It was good to be home!  All the animals were in one piece, if not slightly spoiled by a week with their Uncle Daniel.  We grilled Daniel about the week.  Had everyone behaved?  For the most part.  Wow, did you clean the floors? Why, yes he had!  Were there any problems?  No, everything was fine.  How is the garden?  Good.  It looks incredible.

Sigh.  Too dark to go and see for ourselves.  It would have to wait for tomorrow.

After a night in our own bed, we got up, grabbed our coffee and headed out into the back.  He was right.  everything did look amazing.  The pansies were having a color riot.  Sharon's veggies were sprouting away and the fig monster (who got a winter buzz cut...more on that later...maybe) was sending out new branches and leaves.  All was well.

Except for the succulents I had planted a couple weeks ago.  The ones I'd picked and planted for one reason only: because they made me happy.

With the exception of a couple fragments, you could hardly even tell they'd ever been there.  Sometime during the week, Holli (it must have been Holli) had chased a squirrel through the planter and obliterated my little succulent sanctuary.  It wasn't her fault.  It wasn't Daniel's fault.  It was just a crazy dog and a squirrel doing what dogs and squirrels do.  But I was suddenly in a dark place.

Why?  I'd handled the destruction of the agapanthus just fine.  Because I had made a decision about those succulents.  I'd committed to them as something that made me happy.  And they'd made me really happy. Silly happy.  And now, I felt stupid for having allowed that to happen.  I should've have known better than to be so happy about something so easily destroyed.  I KNOW this lesson:  "Never be too happy, because it will only hurt more when it's gone."

There are many, many things I remember about my abuelita.  Wonderful things.  Things I would never want to forget in a million years.  Like the way she laughed.  The way she moved through a kitchen, as if the entire room was just an extension of her arm.  Like the way her hands felt in my hair and the way she'd take my arm when we were walking.  Till the day I die, I hope I always think of her when I pour milk into my coffee or when I smell cream of rice.  But this one thing, I wish I could forget -- the way she'd pull me aside and tell me with all the experience of age:  "Cuidado, nene.  Don't get attached.  You're going to get hurt."

Even the best of us say stupid things.  Even the smartest of us take those stupid things as gospel.  But I will unlearn that lesson.  I will start by admitting that being happy about my silly, weird looking succulents was fun and worthwhile, no matter how long they lasted.  I will move on to telling myself I cherish how much I loved my grandmother, even though it will always hurt that she's gone.  And I will finish this new lesson by being glad that Sharon and I have allowed ourselves to have another year together, to make it to another vacation, and to learn that it's okay to love the things we most fear to lose.