Major adjustments

That's what I've been working on this week -- major adjustments.

But not all the adjustments have been mine.

For instance, Gatsby-Kitty likes to sit on my lap when I type. I'm now in the midst of moving him from my lap to the desk blotter three feet to my right. He doesn't like changes, and he's so spoiled he just KNOWS I'll give in if he keeps clambering up my leg. My own fault. When he was just a little kitty, he'd fall asleep on my lap when I did my email and other type-written stuff. He was so tiny, he fit safely under my fore-arms.

But now he's full-grown, and he's forever sticking up his head and bopping my forearms, driving my hands off home-row. I'll be typing along and discover I'm suddenly writing a new language that comes out like fakl or luyyu (for damn-it kitty). He's got the SPCA all on his side. So I don't dare fling him over my shoulder onto the couch ten feet back.

I'm not really inclined to be rough with him anyway. I'm a dedicated cat-lover and can't break the habit. Don't even want to break the habit. But the necessary move upsets Gatz. For the first few days, he'd slink off all hurt and pout in an upstairs bedroom. So then I'd haveta go find him, pet him up all good, and bring him downstairs, and lovingly set him down on the blotter beside me. Then I'd rub him up real good, and try to explain the need for the change, and all like that.

Of course, he took all this as a victory. Next thing, here he came up my leg again. Once he got so upset he urped-up on the blotter -- which made me think a set of human triplets'd be easier than a spoiled kitty. (Also made me think I should pick up another kitty and quick write a script for a Three Stooges movie. )

But this is day eleven of the adjustment, and there he sleeps, all curled up on the blotter so cute I have to fight myself to keep from reaching over and rubbing him between the ears. But I resist, knowing that one light stroke between the ears, and here he'd come climbing up my leg again.

I sympathize. Here I've been a widower nearly four years, and still: an hour never passes I don't remember Nancy, and how'd she'd forever be climbing into my lap. How I wish she still could.


Another reason I miss Nancy is that I've been struggling like crazy to get my gardening chores done before spring's all gone. We've had persistent rains most all of April -- which I guess I should expect. But our gardens have just as many chores, half the time, and half the hands.

It's been an adjustment. Weeds and other stuff's been staying way ahead a-me.

This morning I rolled out of bed, raised the blind, and looked out my window. There they stood winking up at me: a whole new crop of dandelions, a wild riot of clover, wild-carrot, and chickweed, all crowding-up through the mulch. "Well," says I, "Half an hour of quick weeding'll fix that!" And it DID -- though it nearly fixed me as well. Believe it: I filled a five-gallon bucket four times before I got the wide ledge on that side of the house looking like somebody still lived here. All of which started the word condo ringing through my mind.

But I don't truly want a condo. This house may be too big for one aging widower, and it may demand more care than I'm accustomed to providing. But it brings our kids back here with MY grandchildren. So I'm bound to stay-on awhile. Which means I need to adjust to doing all the work Nancy and I once shared. No sleeping on the blotter for me just yet.

Today was also a fountain-cleaning day. Sometime mid-fall last year, the old screen I placed over the cascading fountain out back blew aside and slipped down behind the stone wall out of sight. This mishap occurred after I'd drained and cleaned the fountain, and the result was that this spring the fountain was full of leaves and snow-melt water. Whatta MESS.

As it happened, then, this morning's weeding left me standing beside the cluttered fountain with an empty five-gallon bucket in my hand. Took me a challenging hour to bail the water out of the top and bottom basins, remove the leaves, then clean the fountain basins and the spillway. I had the hose all set to fill the fountain, when a torrential downpour drove me back into the house. Could be I'll get the pumps in and the fountain running tomorrow.

There's also a beautiful 3x6' fountain out on the four-season glassed-in porch beyond our living room. It's one of those hanging fountains you may have seen. It's copper, and over the years it's turned wonderful hues of copper-green. Water from the reservoir is driven up to the top, then glides down over small round rocks as it descends to the reservoir. Sunlight filters through the canopy above, penetrates through three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, and dances on the falling water. It's a strikingly beautiful fountain that emits a quietly restful sound.

But since Nancy's death I've permitted the fountain to dry out. Today I cleaned and filled it, turned it on, and sat watching it for awhile. The quiet sounds of falling water inside the room blended with the soft pelting of rain outside the room. Compelling. Sweet. I sat for at least a half hour listening to the water. Was it Handel who wrote "Water Music?" I think so. Somewhere in my huge collection I have a DVD I plan to find. Today I think I gained a new perspective on the music of gently falling water.

The porch is a gorgeous room. The large windows look out onto the cascading fountain surrounded by now-mature perennial gardens. Sliding doors open onto two attractive and practical decks. Close beyond the garden-strips a looping brick walkway connects the two decks, and beyond that walkway, a cluster of maples gives way quickly to mature woods. In a small opening just beyond the walkway is a large bird-feeder that's almost always home to finches, robins, and the occasional cardinal and blue-jay. Keeps me busy filling that feeder and several others.

The porch decor is just as compelling. Nancy chose a red wicker couch, love-seat, and lounge-chair to surround a 9x5' rug. A high antique chest with glass doors above is filled with small antique items. Panel doors below hide a television we rarely use. A rugged, glass-topped coffee table and three small side-tables round out the furnishings. Antique bird-cages, pictures, and miscellaneous items crowd two wide shelves above the windows. Some friends have said this porch is the most striking room in the house. Could be true.

But for nearly four years I've hardly entered the room. Nancy spent the last six months of her life resting on the couch there, watching the burgeoning life outside the windows. She fought cancer there in the midst of all that beauty -- the beauty of the woods, of the room she'd created. To all that -- in my mind's-eye -- I add her own beauty. I cannot tell how many hours I spent sitting opposite her, reading in the love-seat, glancing up frequently to rest my eyes on her. . . or sat with her head in my lap, reading aloud to her, reciting love-poetry. Listening to her. Encouraging her. Willing my spirit to lift her. Loving and hoping.

Today I cleaned and filled and started the fountain. I brought in books. Tomorrow I'll sit where we sat. I'll read. I'll lift my eyes from the pages and admire the woods. I'll remember.

Adjustments must be made.
Again it's spring. It's time.
Tomorrow I'll start.

Thought for the day. . .for a lifetime!

Today was one of those marvelous days when I walked nearly four hours under a crystal-blue sky and couldn't feel the weather. Light breeze maybe. But under the sun, there was no sense of cold or warmth. It felt perfect.

I felt strangely different. . .perhaps more peaceful. But I couldn't identify the feeling exactly. Nothing has really changed in my life. In the midst of my aging I still carry the loss of my beloved wife and the loss of my work I loved so much. Yet, today I felt that while nothing has changed in my life, something may well have changed within me. At last.

I don't know if I can explain why.

Today was one of those light-footed days out on the road. I felt it coming as I stretched gently and ran through an unhurried set of yoga poses. I was out the door in a half hour. As I turned the corner onto Four Mile Road, on my way to skirt the Delta College campus nearly two miles away, I felt light and strong, as if some of my years had suddenly fallen away, leaving me almost weightless.

My limbs felt loose and springy, something like I remember having felt as a boy. I was drawing long, deep breaths that rolled down deep beneath my diaphragm and shoved my lower belly out rhythmically. My strides were slightly longer than usual. I moved along rapidly, feeling the soft strike of my heels, the roll of my weight across the balls of my feet, the firm thrust forward as my strides unfolded.

About a mile and a half out I looked for my woodchuck-buddy Delbert at the entrance to Delta Woods. But presumably, he was off on some private business trip. I thought: Well. . .maybe on the way back.

I took the longer route of the wooded trail, looping north. following the deep drainage ditch to the covered bridge. I paused on the bridge for a few minutes, gazing fondly back north along the ditch. As far as I could follow it with my eye, from where it runs beneath the bridge, rich ground-cover, mature trees, and thick bushes and undergrowth lend the ditch the loveliness of a natural creek.

Light-speckled water sang on round rocks a dozen feet below. Frogs belched their throaty symphony, and gray squirrels scratched about near their nest not ten feet away in low branches of a young beech. Where the massive support beams of the bridge joined close beneath the roof, several barn swallows flitted lightly in and out, their bills full of nesting materials.

I lingered awhile, consciously attuning my senses, searching my mind for a dimly remembered passage from Emerson's "Nature". . .reliving with him his sense -- in much the same sort of bucolic setting -- that he were not himself, but rather a suspended and transparent eyeball. But I was responding with more than just my sight. There was as well the rich scent of damp and promising spring, a veritable chorus of new life unfolding, the rough plank beneath my forearms and elbows, and the taste of warm sweat and cool breeze in my mouth.

All the while my heart swelled and pulsed. I felt buoyant. . .and something else I couldn't immediately define. I turned away and set a rapid pace toward Delta campus.

By the time I broke out of the woods and crossed the meadow to the road, I had identified the feeling.

I was grateful.

I was grateful for the nearly four decades Nancy and I spent together. I was grateful I'd survived my grieving. I was grateful for what it had taught me. I was grateful for my growth gains over the past four difficult years. I was grateful for my growing sense of independence and self-sufficiency. I was grateful that instead of dying I had struggled to grow up at last.

I had this loving thought: despite Nancy's terrible loss of the life she loved and lived so well, I was grateful she was at peace.

But I am still left with this imponderable question: when death comes to end the most important relationship in one's life, then which is worse? To be the one who dies, or the one left in horrible anguish?

I only know that at the time of Nancy's death I would have gladly changed places with her.

So I am still left with this other thought I don't entirely understand or know precisely how to shape into words. But as I ponder the past four years of grieving, I discover that I'm grateful that I was left to carry the anguish and not she.

Still, she had such personal strength and grace. While I can't know for certain, I suspect that had I been the one to die,

Nancy may well have
handled her anguish

far better than have I.

Gardens, Guests, Quilts, & Other Stuff

I know this much about gardening and quilting: they're alike.

Not certain I can tellya why -- or prove it: but it seems to me that lotsa people who love gardening, also love quilting. Antiquing fits in there too. Something about appreciating old stuff, homey stuff. Something about appreciating beauty. Something about collecting and increasing beauty, creating it with one's own hands.

Economy works into it, too: part of the challenge is being able to make something beautiful out of basic resources -- out of what one has at hand. Early quilt-tops were created out of scrap materials collected over time from worn-out garments and tag-ends of materials left over, in the days when much clothing was made in one's own home.

Gardening's also like that. My Gramma taught me basic gardening skills when I was growing up in her old homestead. It was an aging and ramshackle place. But her gardens were colorful, well-designed, and striking.

Never mind the paint was crinkling off the house. She was too old and frail to scrape and repaint the house. Nor could she afford to pay someone else to do it. But she could beautify the place in other ways. The house was surrounded by mature perennial gardens. She taught me to enrich the soil, split and transplant perennials, prune roses and ornamental bushes, clean and weed the gardens, and dispose of cuttings. We burnt the hard cuttings of the trimmed bushes. The ashes from that fire joined soft trimmings in a compact mulch pit.

Seems to me that gardening (like quilting) is an activity that rotates materials: Gramma always said "Use it up! Wear it out! Make it do. . .or do without!" Hers was a scarcity culture. I can't remember ever going to a gardening outlet. (Were there any?) That came three or four decades later when Nancy and I had two incomes rolling into our household. Gramma never spent a dime on her garden. She developed her own mulch, split and transplanted, increased her garden, and made it more beautiful every year. She didn't sew much, because by the time I worked with her, her eyes were failing, and her fingers were no longer nimble.

Nancy enhanced my gardening skills, but mostly, she taught me quilting. She was a wizard at coordinating colors and patterns. I built into the double closet of her sewing room an extensive array of rolling baskets in which she collected and stored materials. She bought cotton material by the yard, arranged it in striking combinations -- pallets, she called them -- and stored them away in the sliding baskets, knowing that during Christmas vacation or on lazy mid-summer days when the major gardening chores had been accomplished, she would fire up her wonderful Bernina sewing machine and churn out ten -- or more -- quilt tops. She would also search out old hand-made patches in antique shops. These she'd reassemble and strip-out into wonderful tops.

Then we'd stretch one quilt-top, the batten, and the coordinated-color quilt-back on her marvelous antique rotating frame. This one we'd mark and work on together. Meanwhile we sent the others to our Amish friend in Holmes County (Ohio). This friend would distribute among various Amish quilters, the tops and backs, Nancy's quilting-design directions, and the binding. We didn't hurry with our own quilting. But within a few months, the Amish quilters' work would begin to arrive UPS. After a reasonable period -- about every three or four weeks -- a finished quilt or two would arrive. Every box felt like Christmas!

Nancy's own quilting was tiny, ten-twelve regular stitches to the inch. She taught me. One of the proudest days I remember was the day she studied my stitches and didn't strip them out. By that time, it was difficult to distinguish my quilting from her own. As I said: a proud day.

Sounds silly, I suppose -- especially coming from a man. But quilting is more than a discreet set of skills. Our long, antique frame mounted and stretched the developing quilt between two ratcheted rollers set 18 inches apart. I worked from one side on the curvilinear stitches. She worked from the other side on the rectilinear. We were often working so close together that our heads were together side-by-side. We could carry on quiet conversations, whisper sweet-nothings into each other's ears. And yes, even smooch a little, though that might lead in dangerous directions: an amorous guy might accidentally wind up poking his own fingers with the needle.


Anyway. . . . This past week has been crowded with gardening chores -- between rains. During rains I did some UNnecessary housecleaning, too. A solitary male runs the sweeper only when absolutely necessary. . . like when rubble threatens to turn his ankle, for instance. Suffice it to say my bum-knee was at hazard. So I had to break up some clods and run the sweeper. Dusted and polished a little too. Cleaned my bathroom (Aaaaargh! Ulp!). Scoured the shower floor when I dropped a wash-cloth and it disappeared into a cavernous foot-print. That kinda stuff.

BUT!

At the end of the week, Nancy's brother and his wife visited for a long weekend. And we spent two long and wonderful days antiquing and attending an immense flea-market and quilt auction in Loomis (in central Michigan near Clare). To give you some idea of the scope of this quilt auction, Friday's auction of quilt tops and hangings approached 350 separate pieces. Saturday's catalog of finished quilts, miniatures, and hangings may have been slightly longer.

Serious bidders arrive an hour early, don plastic gloves, and work carefully through the racks, assiduously selecting and marking on their catalogs the items they think are worth acquiring. Tastes and pocketbooks vary. But typically I come prepared to wait two or three hours between items I wish to acquire. Imagine a 13-16-page catalog, 24-26 items per page. I might have marked an item on the first page, then on the third, perhaps two on the sixth. . .and so on. Quilt auctions demand more than money. They demand patient determination and the wiliness of high stakes poker.

Bill has a massive hand-tool collection. Turn him loose in a Flea Market and he'll turn up ingenious antique hand-tool-gizmos I can neither name, nor tell you how they were once used. Meg's an ingenious quilt designer and fabricator. Her work is becoming known across the midwest. Turn her loose at a quilt auction, and she'll spot every unique and beautiful piece available.

Bill antiqued most of both days. Meg and I did the show. Bill got a tool or two I can't adequately describe, except that they pleased him mightily. But he also spent time with us on and off.

I got an unbelievably gorgeous quilt and four miniatures. I also got $500.00 beyond my limit. It was Meg's fault. She's petite, and was unable to wrestle my card from me.

I absolutely stole the best quilt in the show, and four miniatures, exquisitely beautiful beyond description. I'm getting into these tiny, exquisite hangings for two reasons. First, my quilt cabinets are bulging. Second, the miniatures are a relatively new quilting technique that make compelling wall-hangings individually, or in clusters on a wall. For a long time I've had three of Nancy's original miniatures squirreled away. These were designed primarily with bright color-combinations on black backgrounds. Stunning stuff. Anyway, I got four new ones of Best-in-Show quality -- different designs: brightly-colored pin-wheels-encircled, nine-patch-on-diagonal, and such -- executed on a black background. My plan is to combine Nancy's with these and make a stunning seven-piece wall-arrangement where a large picture of us hangs at present.

Now I've got enough pieces. But I had to break some hearts and competitors to do it.

Auctions of any sort are exciting. But the Yoder Sale is exceptionally so. The major reason for that is that over the years it has attracted exquisite Amish quilts and miniatures from all over the country. Another reason is that the main auctioneer is a warm and spell-binding showman. I've studied him now for years. Leroy is the kinda guy who'll stop right in the middle of a running sale and speak to me personally, if I drop out of a sequence:

(All amiable and engaging): "Now Mr. Bob! You almost got this piece sewed up! I likeya too much ta letcha stop now! Come-on one more bid'll do-er!"

(Lyin' through my teeth): "Now Mr. Leroy! This'un's not even the best one I wanna bid on. . . ." (Indicating Meg sitting innocently beside me:) " Gramma's makin' me stop. . . ."

(Eyes all-atwinkle): "Lookee here, Mr. Bob! You go $25.00 more, un I promise ta hammer down."

(Glint in my eye!) "Okay, Mr. Leroy: but you don't, I'm gonna keep-on abiddin' till midnight!"

Bidding's akin to poker. In a way, Leroy's doing two things. First, he's helping me, letting me establish for new-comers that I'm determined and sitting on the national treasury. (Which is the essential bluff.) Few bidders'll go very far beyond such silly and comic conversational stops. But if they do, he counts on me to drive the price up as far as possible. Second, he's establishing a friendly and compelling atmosphere among a huge crowd of bidders and spectators alike. He's an engaging person and a consummate showman! He's the most likable pirate I've ever encountered. He and I've worked a similar show for years.

Driving the price up helps me, even if I drop out. I sacrifice the item, while depleting my competitors' funds. And I always have five or six desirable items I can still bid on. And usually, I can project pretty accurately how far my money'll spread. It's a no-lose situation. If I get the final bid within my desired range, I get the item. If I don't, I'm bound to get one or more of the others. Plus, nice as an item may be, no item is life or death anyway. It's the fun of the battle as much as acquiring the piece. And Leroy always makes such battles fun.

In fact, I have the sense at times that several of us who have attended the auction for years will back off and let an item go, just because we can see how much another bidder wants it. It doesn't make sense to discourage bidders. Why would any decent person wanna hog everything, anyway? Laugh if you wish: but in the end,

a healthy spirit of generosity is by far
more satisfying than acquisitiveness.
Works that way at auctions, too!

My Personal Groundhog Day

Took a long walk after gardening chores yesterday.

Gray day. Looked like rain. Grabbed my umbrella and took off toward Delta College along my usual route -- south two miles along Four Mile Road, through Delta woods, around the perimeter of Delta, back the same route home. Maybe six miles in all.

Two miles out, I crossed the ditch at the back entrance of Delta Woods. I heard a quiet stir and chatter where the drive joins the ditch and looked back over my shoulder. And there he stood on his haunches: my Delta Woods woodchuck-buddy, Delbert.

I hadn't seen him since early spring. But I could see he's had a good season so far. He leaned back all plump and proud, his dark-damp coat glistening in the sun. Prior to greeting me, he may've been fish-tailing in the deeper water of the ditch, rootin' around among the tall cat-tails, tryna find some tender roots for a mid-afternoon meal. He cocked his head at me, plumped down spraddle-legged on his tail-end, and began munching busily on the soft, wet end of broken-off cat-tail.

Still, I could see he wanted to talk. So, I sat down on a large round rock about ten feet from him where he perched warily between the water's edge and the tight entrance to his burrow. I watched him awhile, then pressed my tongue against my upper teeth and made soft clicking sounds.

He wiggled his head about, as if assuring himself he was in no immediate danger, then fixed me with his dark-black eyes and chattered back amiably. A few quick chews and some chatters. . .chews and chatters. . .chews and chatters.

Clearly, he thought we had some catchin'-up to do.

I reached over quietly, slid a tall stalk of rye-grass out of its socket, chopped off the long end between two incisors, and stuck the sweet end into my mouth. A few chews. . .some clicks and chatters. . .chomps, clicks and chatters. I'm solitary mostly, but I feel obliged to accept all invitations to chat.

Notwithstanding all woodchucks look alike, notwithstanding I hadn't seen him for several weeks, I was immediately certain this was my old buddy Del. First of all, he remembered me. He'd chattered to get my attention, when it would've been his habit to quickly hide at the approach of another large animal. But for three springs and summers we've always chatted quietly. He trusts me.

More accurately, perhaps he always remembers the shelled walnuts I carry in the front pocket of my hood -- just in case I should encounter him. I don't know: do marmots have memories? Could be. (I like to think so.) I slipped a walnut scrap free of my pocket and slooooow-pitched it underhand in his direction. It landed close-by, between his right hind-foot and the ditch-water. Immediately he paused, darted his head about, drew the moist stalk from his mouth, leaned over and sniffed the walnut. A quick, darting chomp, some chews, a wiggling raised-head swallow, and it was gone.

Don't dare think woodchucks're ungrateful. Del executed a quick 360, sat back lazily on his rump and quick-chattered a clear thank-you. He raised his head, sniffed the air in sheer delight. So I flipped him another half-walnut, which he quickly retrieved and gobbled. Dumb animal? Not much. Consider which one of us was getting fed.

Woodchucks're worth knowing. You may disagree. . .as you wish. Three summers ago, when I first spotted Del, I did a little research. I wasn't immediately certain what he was. Some sort of marmot to be sure. Friendship always starts like that. You get interested enough, you start paying attention. Maybe ask around some. Though I didn't go beyond Webster, I learned enough to identify him. This is what a guy gets when one of his first books was The Wind in the Willows.

Here's what I learned from Webster:

marmot: a stout-bodied, short-legged,
burrowing rodent with coarse fur, a

short bushy tail, and very small ears.

woodchuck: a grizzled, thick-set marmot
of northeastern U.S. and Canada. Called
also, groundhog.

groundhog: woodchuck

Typically circular, but sufficient.

Of course, I'd already learned during my early childhood three very important truths:

First, small woodland animals inhabit a community very like the one you and I do. I mean: they socialize and share. I sense your cynicism. But I remain unmoved. I may be crazy, but a few walnuts shared, and Del and I always enjoy a chat.

Second, it remains uncertain exactly how much wood a woodchuck chucks -- if, indeed, a woodchuck could chuck wood. Del remains silent on the issue. And I never press him.

Third, by any other name, woodchucks have magical powers.

Who can doubt the power of Groundhog Day? Never mind science. Never mind the calendar. Never mind you count six weeks from February 2nd, and you wind up pretty close to March 21st -- traditionally the first day of spring. Never mind Del seeing the sun. Whether Del sees the sun or not, you still get spring in six-weeks' time.

I submit: the significant thing about February 2nd is that it gives us something worth thinking about. The idea of Groundhog Day is tied up with looking forward to the promise of spring after a long and taxing winter. It's delightful nonsense. Still, it's one more chance to celebrate.

I confess I love Bill Murray's film Groundhog Day, in which he's doomed to relive the holiday over and over, until. . .I can't remember what?! Still, we might all do well to get caught in his repetitive cycle. He does something good -- even heroic -- every day. He masters the piano. Despite the repetitive cycle of his days, he never gives-in to boredom. Instead, he celebrates each day. He grows. He loves his days, becomes lovable, wins the love he wishes.

All this he accomplishes with no access to his own personal groundhog.

By contrast, I have Del. A few shelled walnuts, and he's at my beck-and-call. Makes me feel lucky. Makes me know that something good can happen any day. Makes me wanna pay closer attention. Keeps me hopeful.

Anyway, Del and I chatted until shortly after I ran out of fat walnut halves. He disclosed he has no mate currently. Had one early spring. But she took off with their pups. He harbors no hard feelings, though. He loves this fat season, its unhurried pace, and his solitary life.

It appears Del and I have much in common.

When a soft misty rain began to fall, we chattered our good-byes. Del scoot-waddled off down the ditch, disappearing among the cat-tails. I continued my walk through the woods. By the time I crossed the covered bridge near East Campus Drive, the sun had reappeared.

I took another route home. Still, I'm sure I'll see Del again soon.

Friendship works better
when you don't crowd it.
And you have a few
shelled walnuts to share!

The grass is always greener

YES! Greener. . .and taller, too. At least it's taller around our house.

For some reason I cannot fathom, my neighbors've been cutting their grass this past few weeks.

During this same period I've been nonchalantly backing out my long driveway with my eyes diverted upward, watching eagerly for signs the trees are greening (which they are). . .or fixing them horizontally out across the pond spying on male geese as they clatter about battling for supremacy among the females. . .or in any direction my eyes're least likely to fall upon evidence it's time to begin my spring gardening chores. Maybe even long-past time to begin.

Of course, two or three weeks ago I could feast my eyes upon thick stands of head-bobbing daffodils and crocus. And the trillium and jack-in-pulpit were springing up throughout the deeply wooded areas of the back and side yards. Buds were bursting. Our perennials were poking-up their sharply-wound leaves wherever my eye fell. But I avoided any positive thoughts about beginning spring gardening chores. Believe me: cutting the lawn never entered my mind.

In fact, I dimly realized that this past several weeks of relatively mild weather signaled this was precisely the time to split thick growths of perennials and transplant them while their clusters were still tight and close to the ground -- never mind the uncertain weather, the periodic freezes for which this area is famous.

Simple truth is that I was too lazy to do what I knew I should be doing in the garden.

It's just not as much fun without Nancy.

My neighbor Skip -- whose religious lawnsmanship demands he cut his lawn no fewer than three times a week -- never mentions (to me) my lawn and garden delinquencies. Nevertheless, his well-groomed grass greets my eye every sunlit hour as a sort of silent accusation. Never mind: I feel that I'm adding to the splendor of his yard, simply by ignoring my own. After all, the contrast IS remarkable -- and all to his credit.

Actually, I didn't even intend to cut the lawn today. I've been waiting for it to even-out. I have a free-thinking, self-governing breed of grass, if you must know. It kinda grows in patches: wild globes of green here, balding golden patches there, ugly yellow thatch throughout, dandelion and chick-weed evenly distributed. Equal-opportunity shades of green mixed in liberally -- every blade for itself. Sorta reflects American entrepreneurship at its best.

I'm certain the more-astute students of free enterprise among you will agree that cutting such a variegated lawn smacks of the worst sort of external regulation. Lawn-cutting-activism represents exactly the sort of creeping socialism most feared by my Republican friends.

Mostly for their sake I remain steadfast. I fear the domino-effect: first comes frequent cutting, then watering. Next comes careful fertilization. Finally -- god help us -- professional lawn care, complete with application of herbicide. Thence cometh perdition.

I'm apparently the sole remaining holdout in our small community along Maple Lane. Please don't think I'm improving my lawn-care and gardening skills purposely. I didn't intend to cut the lawn today. The entire debacle happened by accident. Who could have believed my lawnmower could have started on the very first pull? I have ignored that machine for a decade. Never have I changed the oil. Never have I sharpened the blade. My only sin has been filling the gas tank whenever the motor coughs to a stop.

In fact, today was a terrifying example of how one questionable effort leads to another, until all is lost. I wandered out to my mailbox right after breakfast, carefully noting along the way that despite bright sunlight and a cool breeze -- ideal conditions for lawn care -- the grass was still wet with dew. Surely not the appropriate time to mow the grass.

But the mail had not yet arrived -- which left me momentarily at a loss for something to do. I wandered aimlessly among the perennials for one unguarded moment. Without regard to my better angels, I made a bad decision. Noting some large dandelions, I went to my gardening cabinet in the garage, selected a narrow hand-scoop, and began methodically loosening and removing full-grown dandelions by the score.

I wasn't proud of myself. I knew I was doing wrong. Early-on I had said to myself: "Just the large ones, Self. That much'll be okay. Surely no one will notice." But the slippery thing about this sort of wild behavior is that once the largest are collected, the next-largest appear suitable for extraction. . .and the next ones, and the next ones until every dandelion is snatched up willy-nilly, and there appears no appropriate place to stop the endeavor. Alas, by the third bucket of dandelions, I was removing every weed in sight. Goodbye buckhorn and small thistles. So long chickweed. Arrivederci clutch of clover and wild carrot. . . .

Nor was indiscriminate weeding the full depth of my slide. Soon as I ran out of weeds I started "snapping off" daffodil seed-heads with reckless abandon. The appropriate time for removing dried-out daffodil blossoms was about a week ago -- before they went to seed, thus depriving the bulbs of the energy that renews them year-to-year. But the task had slipped by me, and what I stripped this morning were seed pods large around as the first joint of my thumb. So the damage was already done. Yet, on I went: better late than never. Better never than later.

Along the way, I noted that the daffodil clumps should've been split and transplanted a week or two ago. Too late now, I fear. But maybe not. My Gramma taught me to split and transplant perennials in the fall. Nancy always split and transplanted perennials in the spring. . .when the plants first broke the ground. In fact, Nancy split whenever she pleased. And she got away with it, too. Her plantings always multiplied. Oh well: at worst, I've lost a year of growth.

I've made a note on my desk calendar, first week of October: "Expand maple-grove beds. Split and transplant all perennials." However, I'm hoping to be away from home visiting family the entire month of October. But we shall see: perhaps I'll experience a burst of energy and waste it on the garden.

Sad to say: by the time I completed this late process of removing seed-pods, I had developed so much momentum that I wheeled the lawn mower out of the barn, filled the gas tank, set the choke, and yanked the cord. To my astonishment and alarm, it let fly a snort and rattled into life. I messed with the choke, adjusted the throttle. (But it wouldn't quit.)

Not knowing what else to do, I cut the lawn. It's a really small lawn: three tiny pieces out front surrounding a lovely grove of large maples and hickories. Takes under ten minutes to do the entire thing at a relatively brisk walk. One bag filled, and the work's complete. Well. . . .

It was a small sin.
May the devout among you
pray for my forgiveness!