This past weekend we jaunted over to the Elston Farmer’s Market Garden Center– don’t let the “farmer’s market” part fool you, it was more “garden center” than anything else. Although they had a really sweet selection of stone mushrooms to decorate one’s yard- but I guess that’s pretty “garden,” too.
We walked away with, among other things, marigolds, a rose bush, a peony and a raspberry plant. The reasons (besides the fact that it’s really fun to buy things) are as follows:
-My Nana actually used to have “prized marigolds.” This makes me feel warm and fuzzers inside to [have P.J.] plant something that she used to “prize.” Also- the yard rabbits (much like garden gnomes but more dangerous) cannot stand the smell of them. This way, we’ll actually get to eat the stuff we [P.J.] plant[s]. We don’t want to go more proactive against the rabbits, since, as everyone knows, rabbits have overtaken the rats in the city. This is true. And awesome.
-P.J. actually did promise me a rose garden. And I’m collecting on that.
-We believed that peony bush I received for “free” from the Arbor Day Foundation (card-carrying member, baby) perished over this past winter. As some of you may recall, this was the plant which beat our new house to the finish line in the race of Things We Actually Own. I illegally planted it in the yard well before any passing of any keys. (But, if you consider all the illegal things this house had been used for in the past handful of years- I feel that guerrilla gardening falls well under the radar of punishable offenses.) Anyway, while the peony flourished last summer and early fall, we [P.J.] may or may not have forgotten to winter it. (I don’t even know what that means.) But to quote Dickon in The Secret Garden, one of my favorite books ever: “It’s as wick as you or me!” I say this a lot. Even when something isn’t necessarily “alive.” Like I’ve mentioned before, P.J. is the gardener. (Also- we now have two peony bushes that are “wick.”)
-The raspberries will join the strawberries which we- ahem- borrowed from our lovely garden on Oakley. My hope is to eventually have enough backyard fruit to open a jammerie. Jammery? A place for squashing berries. Kate and I used to pick raspberries and blackberries from the neighbor’s yard (see? I come by this stealing naturally) and sell them in little Dixie cups in our lemonade stands. Also- I used to make leaf rubbings for which we had the gall to charge a dollar. It was a one-stop emporium. However, the extension of Hancock Road had very little traffic to speak of- although the occasional biker (motorcycle, mind you) would be convinced to slow down. I’m sure the chalk drawings and notifications of LEMONADE AND BERRIES AND LEAF RUBBINGS down the block helped. Kate would make the hard sell of fruit and beverage, and, like Jojo the Idiot Cirus Boy, I’d shill some rubbings. We cleaned up.
So I’ve done my part. Now it’s up to P.J. to plant, to maintain, to seed some grass, to water, to mow, to weed, to mulch…you know, his part. He has a green thumb. Perhaps a whole hand. Since I over-love, my thumbs are, sadly, black.
Which sounds like a circulation issue.
And speaking of discolored appendages, I spent the better part of this week in excruciating pain. Since I’d recently been led to believe that my pain tolerance is decently high, I was concerned. Okay, not “concerned” so much as “whiny.” (But let’s be honest here: I was unaware of bursting ovarian cysts and my c-section recovery was kinda peachy. The last time I whined about pain was when Nora was wedged on my right lung. So that’s where pregnancy fell on the scale of things.) Anyway, I couldn’t lift my left shoulder any higher than my mid-section, it couldn’t be touched- and, since I can’t take anything stronger than Tylenol whilst nursing, nothing helped the pain.
Whine, whine, whine.
I finally got in to see my fabulous chiropractor and discovered that I had a) a pinched nerve in my neck, b) a popped shoulder, and c) a slightly dislocated rib. A couple of adjustments and one stellar wellness massage later-(Thanks Dr. Bouvin, Dr. Vargas and Kelly!)- I’m starting to feel better. So how did I get this way? No idea. I sling the baby girl a lot, plus I lift multiple children up multiple staircases, but you wouldn’t think that would equivocate the loser in a bar fight. (I never lose bar fights.) It must’ve been one of those awesome, happenstance, increasing-strain injuries. The kind that happen rather often to me. Since my joints weren’t amazingly well-formed by the time I was born.
As my Dad is fond of telling me, “You weren’t fully cooked.”
My Dad used to have to make emergency trips to my elementary school playground to pop my elbows back in their sockets. This is true. It is an art and a skill. I was so proud of my Dad’s abilities that I’d brag to school nurses and ER doctors that “my Dad pops my elbows in and of out of their sockets all the time!” Which I’m sure indicates a troubled home and not a troubled musculoskeletal system.
This is also the Dad, however, who taught us to makes crepes (always separate the egg whites), the importance of a brilliantly timed key change, and why the Three Stooges are clutch. He’s the guy whom I’ll associate with the scents of sawdust in a house and chicken on a grill. A stellar guitarist. The ultimate handyman. The kind of Dad who would watch the X-Files every Friday night with his fourteen year-old daughter- and, later that year, take her to see Etta James to help her get over a particularly tragic break-up.
So, in honor of my Dad’s impending birthday, here’s a clip that he and I will always, always find funny. Because he’s just that awesome. (And this clip is really, really funny.)
(Happy birthday, Dad!)