My husband calls me the Border Girl cuz our caboose is parked in such a manner that we have bits and pieces of land around us where I can garden with bits and pieces of vegetation. I have nearly completed a three or four foot wide and twenty feet long border up against a fence that's full of foxglove, winding rosemary, not the stout roman soldier kind, three ever-bearing raspberries, iris, jonquils, a wall flower I have to watch everyday lest it take over completely all mixed up with four columbines, three feverfew for migraines, a myriad of wormwood, poppies of a pale lemonade hue, strawberries that are bearing right up to Christmas with little grape hyacinths tucked inside the leaves. There's a nice healthy clump of marjoram that blends into a lemon-lime moss, two unknown beautiful somethings and tomorrow my neighbor is bringing me over a section of his tuber rose which I took care of when no one lived in his house.
The house next door was lived in for years by a woman who raised a buncha of children and a yard of crazy flowers which is where the tuber rose is coming from. She died a number of years ago and the kids all grown and speed freaks, who sold the place and none of them could see a flower growing, until Marc. I pray Marc stays forever. He is a fine gourmet chef and loves to garden. He's the one I explained to what a tuber rose is, so he wouldn't cut down those woody stalks and sticks, cuz come spring, it's gonna be a beauty of scent and rich flowers. I can't wait to plant this little bit he's giving me. Mimi Farina was right when she sang of Bread and Roses. We do need to have both in our life. Marc, in a way, is a male version of myself. I call him my brother. His house is full of collages, some movable, some glued. He never happier than when he has dirt under his fingernails or food in the middle of a recipe. Before he moved in and his house was empty, I gardened the borders of his house, taking a bit of this, a piece of that in payment for my work.
I had too many daffodil bulbs, so I planted some of them in his eastern border and they are blooming now.
I have to tackle my eastern border, but it's a bit daunting. The Jerusalem artichokes have taken over and every time that happens, so come the potato bugs which I really hate......
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Sunday, August 26, 2018
The Secrets Children Carry Because Thet Don't Know How To Put Them Down
I've just finished reading a Stephen King novel," Lisey's Story", who I read every once in a ten years or so and I've been in bed for two days, which is why I can read a whole book in one day. I've the time. When I went to the doctors a few days ago complaining about my joints aching, (if the rest of my bodily aches and pains and diseases weren't enough), he wants me to go get a Lyme's test, as I've lived in the deep Woods for so long and in town not so very long. This King book is not one of the won't I just won't read like the ones about rabid dogs, or haunted houses and cars that are alive, I like the 'nice' ones and I thought this was going to be one of those and it was not, but it was so close to home, I couldn't not finish it. It was about mental illness to be summed up in one sentence. But it was also about the magic places one can 'create', or go to to be safe. And I don't know if those places can exist without someone making them, or if they are like, "If there isn't anyone in the forest, and a tree falls, can it be heard?" kind of conundrum.
My mother and my oldest brother (who is younger than me) are both , shall we say politely, 'over the edge'. I say it this way, because there are times when they have been loving to me and I hold those few moments precious. But That's the sadness, they are so few. My mother's illness, as well as my brother's is well-lubricated with meanness and that's the hardest part to take and the hardest part to break on through to the other side as Jimbo sang, into love. I don't know where my mother's came from. I know that my brother's illness came from my mother's treatment of all of us children and on into adulthood, and he didn't have the strength that my little brother and I have to combat the meanness, the abuse, the down-right scariness of cruelty.
I do know I can love them only because Jesus. There are people rolling their eyes as they read that and I don't much care. In fact, I don't care at all. I know what it's taken to keep me from the fear-monster and that's enough for me. Also, He has taught me how to NOT be one sonnuvabitch, when it would be so easy.
King's book talks about that concept. Oh, he doesn't use Jesus as his method of strength, but he talks about the capability to love when someone on the outside lookin' in, would say, "you are one crazy woman to waste an ounce of love on that kinda treatment.". Well, I'm not wasting any treatment on anybody. My mother is a person, not just her actions and I can pull a few, not a lot, but some memories out of my hellhole of a childhood that indicate something that is nice. I won't go so far as to say it was love she was offering me, but it wasn't mean-ness at that moment and that's always a relief. My brother, I only hold responsible for ugly behavior when I know sure as shootin' well, he could have controlled it, if he had just put out some effort or listened. But I could be wrong there and I'll never know.
In Lisey's Story, the man does what a lot of decent sensitive men do when they come up against things like mental illness: they look for someone to partner with who is just the opposite of the mental illness they grew up with. And that's what Scott did in Lisey's Story. Women , I've noticed, in myself, as well as some other women, tend to marry what they are familiar with and as a teen, I married a paranoid schizophrenic. When the violence came out, I skedaddled just as fast as I could, with a baby in my arms. I think I took longer than I should have, but we did live in the Deep Woods and he would steal my shoes or clothes and when it was winter and snowy, eight miles to town can be dangerous if
no one comes by and you have to run through that woody place that is close to the road to get out into if it's not his truck, but remain hidden in the woods if it is his truck. It was a tricky roll of the dice. I called it playin' Chutes and Ladders while wearin' a Snuggley (tm) up against my breasts with a sweetbreath baby in it.
There was a sweetness about that man that was tormented by his illness, there was a genius inside that flabbergasted a number of people and when he died prematurely just a few months ago, people flew in from other states to the memorial I put together and my son, at 32, was an upstanding gentleman, who had several bad encounters with his father and I don't think any good ones.
My mother's illness includes a great deal of violence placed on her children as well as permission for her husband (not our Father) to mete out violence on children too young to understand why, just as mother herself meted out violence on me when I was as young as two. She has a fine line between what is real and what is her idea of real. That's the most frustrating part, now that we are too big to beat up. There was only one time when all three of us children were, as adults in the same room with her and corrected her idea of a reality story and her frustration at 'losing' out to her false memory was profound to watch. To watch the mentally ill, is both sad and frustrating to the sane. We can't cure her.
She's a psycho-path, which is scary and she's also a Narcissist. Us grown kids ten years ago decided to leave her alone and save ourselves. Though, this last year September after ten years of silence, I called her on her birthday to see if there wasn't a way back through to love and she told me never to call her again. Apparently a nephew had told her a horrific lie she chooses to believe rather than understand that he was hurting her to hurt his father. So I realized, the meanness, which is different than the actual mental illness, has come on down the line like a freight train out of control.
My mother and my oldest brother (who is younger than me) are both , shall we say politely, 'over the edge'. I say it this way, because there are times when they have been loving to me and I hold those few moments precious. But That's the sadness, they are so few. My mother's illness, as well as my brother's is well-lubricated with meanness and that's the hardest part to take and the hardest part to break on through to the other side as Jimbo sang, into love. I don't know where my mother's came from. I know that my brother's illness came from my mother's treatment of all of us children and on into adulthood, and he didn't have the strength that my little brother and I have to combat the meanness, the abuse, the down-right scariness of cruelty.
I do know I can love them only because Jesus. There are people rolling their eyes as they read that and I don't much care. In fact, I don't care at all. I know what it's taken to keep me from the fear-monster and that's enough for me. Also, He has taught me how to NOT be one sonnuvabitch, when it would be so easy.
King's book talks about that concept. Oh, he doesn't use Jesus as his method of strength, but he talks about the capability to love when someone on the outside lookin' in, would say, "you are one crazy woman to waste an ounce of love on that kinda treatment.". Well, I'm not wasting any treatment on anybody. My mother is a person, not just her actions and I can pull a few, not a lot, but some memories out of my hellhole of a childhood that indicate something that is nice. I won't go so far as to say it was love she was offering me, but it wasn't mean-ness at that moment and that's always a relief. My brother, I only hold responsible for ugly behavior when I know sure as shootin' well, he could have controlled it, if he had just put out some effort or listened. But I could be wrong there and I'll never know.
In Lisey's Story, the man does what a lot of decent sensitive men do when they come up against things like mental illness: they look for someone to partner with who is just the opposite of the mental illness they grew up with. And that's what Scott did in Lisey's Story. Women , I've noticed, in myself, as well as some other women, tend to marry what they are familiar with and as a teen, I married a paranoid schizophrenic. When the violence came out, I skedaddled just as fast as I could, with a baby in my arms. I think I took longer than I should have, but we did live in the Deep Woods and he would steal my shoes or clothes and when it was winter and snowy, eight miles to town can be dangerous if
no one comes by and you have to run through that woody place that is close to the road to get out into if it's not his truck, but remain hidden in the woods if it is his truck. It was a tricky roll of the dice. I called it playin' Chutes and Ladders while wearin' a Snuggley (tm) up against my breasts with a sweetbreath baby in it.
There was a sweetness about that man that was tormented by his illness, there was a genius inside that flabbergasted a number of people and when he died prematurely just a few months ago, people flew in from other states to the memorial I put together and my son, at 32, was an upstanding gentleman, who had several bad encounters with his father and I don't think any good ones.
My mother's illness includes a great deal of violence placed on her children as well as permission for her husband (not our Father) to mete out violence on children too young to understand why, just as mother herself meted out violence on me when I was as young as two. She has a fine line between what is real and what is her idea of real. That's the most frustrating part, now that we are too big to beat up. There was only one time when all three of us children were, as adults in the same room with her and corrected her idea of a reality story and her frustration at 'losing' out to her false memory was profound to watch. To watch the mentally ill, is both sad and frustrating to the sane. We can't cure her.
She's a psycho-path, which is scary and she's also a Narcissist. Us grown kids ten years ago decided to leave her alone and save ourselves. Though, this last year September after ten years of silence, I called her on her birthday to see if there wasn't a way back through to love and she told me never to call her again. Apparently a nephew had told her a horrific lie she chooses to believe rather than understand that he was hurting her to hurt his father. So I realized, the meanness, which is different than the actual mental illness, has come on down the line like a freight train out of control.
Ghosts
My father died Dec 31, 2000 and I have a habit of seeing my Dead. I have been seeing my father everywhere and it drives me crazy and hurts because I miss him so much. The weird thing is he and my husband have the same birthday, they both have blue blue eyes and are built like Marlon Brando after "Street Car", but not quite as heavy as "Godfather"; more like "Last Tango in Paris".
I remember when I was five and we lived in Maui nearly in the rainforest area, you walk five feet and bingo! we are in the jungle. Hawaiian houses have a special feature because of the weather. There is a room called The Lanai and it often doesn't have glass in the window, for the breeze to sneak in.. Sometimes folks have wooden shutters, because it rains nearly once a day or night on Maui Nui. The roofs are usually thatched with palm leaves. At least the ones I saw.
My Dad took us for a drive on his thirtieth birthday up to Haleakala` because the Century Plant was nearly in bloom and he wanted us to see it. My Dad had from a very early age, male pattern balding. I was five and sitting in the back seat leaning into my Dad, (it was the early Sixties, most cars didn't even have seatbelts) and watching his face in the rearview mirrow with a smile on my face. I truly loved my Dad. He caught me grinning in the glass and grinned back. My mother also caught it and said, "Sit back, Robin" ; but it was too late. The love had already passed between my Dad and I.
Rest Father as you never had been able to in daily living and don't forget how much I love you.
I remember when I was five and we lived in Maui nearly in the rainforest area, you walk five feet and bingo! we are in the jungle. Hawaiian houses have a special feature because of the weather. There is a room called The Lanai and it often doesn't have glass in the window, for the breeze to sneak in.. Sometimes folks have wooden shutters, because it rains nearly once a day or night on Maui Nui. The roofs are usually thatched with palm leaves. At least the ones I saw.
My Dad took us for a drive on his thirtieth birthday up to Haleakala` because the Century Plant was nearly in bloom and he wanted us to see it. My Dad had from a very early age, male pattern balding. I was five and sitting in the back seat leaning into my Dad, (it was the early Sixties, most cars didn't even have seatbelts) and watching his face in the rearview mirrow with a smile on my face. I truly loved my Dad. He caught me grinning in the glass and grinned back. My mother also caught it and said, "Sit back, Robin" ; but it was too late. The love had already passed between my Dad and I.
Rest Father as you never had been able to in daily living and don't forget how much I love you.
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
21 August 2018
The Caboose on Catherine
The fires are finally about 85% contained. These last two years have been a virtual hell of fire and brimstone. Just terrible smoke and flames and frightening realities of "pack the hope chest with photographs, art, poetry and be ready to grab the cat. I wish I lived in a cool damp place like Scotland and don't tell me I would hate the cold: I love the cold weather so much more than this horrible destruction. I wandered here as a teen and just never left except for a few trips to Paris, Italy, Mexico, the Canadian Shield...Now I'm content to stay at home, especially in Winter when the birds come home and stay through the Spring and summer. It seems only in Autumn do they take off for climates that aren't relentless with rainy storms. It's mild enough that not all the birds fly south for the warmth down there. Down there being Mexico.
Cold mornings reflect a summer sun,
a shiny red ball of flames
and starry girls dancing in dresses of fire;
how is it that we can never loosen
our hold on the fear of summer sparks
that consume acres of trees,
skeletal bodies of deer, rabbits, small birds
lying in the shadow of that last tall Douglas Fir.
We are brave and then, we are not brave.
We just don't know how long it will last each year
and we relinquish our idea of control
as we bow our faces into the ashes
and pray for rain.
The Caboose on Catherine
The fires are finally about 85% contained. These last two years have been a virtual hell of fire and brimstone. Just terrible smoke and flames and frightening realities of "pack the hope chest with photographs, art, poetry and be ready to grab the cat. I wish I lived in a cool damp place like Scotland and don't tell me I would hate the cold: I love the cold weather so much more than this horrible destruction. I wandered here as a teen and just never left except for a few trips to Paris, Italy, Mexico, the Canadian Shield...Now I'm content to stay at home, especially in Winter when the birds come home and stay through the Spring and summer. It seems only in Autumn do they take off for climates that aren't relentless with rainy storms. It's mild enough that not all the birds fly south for the warmth down there. Down there being Mexico.
Cold mornings reflect a summer sun,
a shiny red ball of flames
and starry girls dancing in dresses of fire;
how is it that we can never loosen
our hold on the fear of summer sparks
that consume acres of trees,
skeletal bodies of deer, rabbits, small birds
lying in the shadow of that last tall Douglas Fir.
We are brave and then, we are not brave.
We just don't know how long it will last each year
and we relinquish our idea of control
as we bow our faces into the ashes
and pray for rain.
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