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It isn’t often that I get excited about little critters eating my plants, but when Carol spotted these little guys I thought it was something pretty cool. They’re some pretty boring looking little grubs individually, but the way they move as a group is pretty cool. It turns out these are European Pine Sawflies. They defoliated several branches on my muhgo pine before I got to the store to buy poison. I probably should have taken care of them earlier, but they had such a cool little dance.
“What should we plant next, Gabe?” “Um. This one.” Gabe indicates the Cantaloupe. “Ok.” I dig a spot for it and he gently sprinkles seeds. There will be lots of thinning later, for now I don’t really care how many he spreads around. I hear laughter behind me. I look to see Isaac and two neighbor kids – all in bike helmets – making their way into my secluded and peaceful back yard. I had told Isaac to bring them over sometime. I just think it’s cool that he’s making friends in the neighborhood. “What’s next?” “Um. We should plant this one in the summer.” “Actually, we want summer squash to be ready to eat in the summer, so we should plant it now.” “Ok.” We plant. This time Gabe is a little less careful with his seed placement. He scatters quickly, mostly in a little lump. I make sure to spread them a little as I cover them with soil. “Next?” “Pumpkin.” The pumpkins go down fast. Gabe tosses them in the general vicinity of the hole, making sure to get most of them on the correct half of the garden. I hear the laughter in the other side of the yard. I turn around just long enough to tell Isaac that he shouldn’t be playing with the citranella candle oil. I try really hard not to hover. I really want the kids to be comfortable playing in our backyard so that I maybe see Isaac from time to time this summer. “Ok, Gabe, now I just want to plant the lettuce.” “Ok.” I don’t give him many of the lettuce seeds. The ones that I entrust to him end up in a 1-inch diameter cluster near the hole. I cover them up along with the rest that I’ve scattered and turn around. Isaac and his gang are gone. Every toy out of the box, each having been played with for no more than fifteen seconds. Gabe and I water our gourd heavy garden. We soak everything, including a little bit of Gabe. Isaac eventually returns and doesn’t even resist when I tell him everything has to be picked up. I appreciate that, so I even help. So does Gabe. Isaac does play other songs. He knows how to do it. He sometimes will willingly play America the Beautiful or the Imperial March — he’s so patriotic. Yet, Yankee Doodle is always his favorite. So that’s what he played for his recital. He had a routine planned out, Yankee Doodle in three keys or something like that. It ended being Yankee Doodle lots of times, but I think it went well. Gabe, of course, was more interested in the fact that there was a recording being made. I apologize for the poor camerawork; I had catch Gabe, pick him up, and hold him down for a significant part of the performance. I know, seriously. I didn’t even know I could hold my breath that long. I apologize for the extended absence, but a person needs to shuffle priorities sometimes. It turns out things still happen, even when I fail to write about them. I do think I will have more time to go into detail on several of these topics, but… Isaac is a golfer now. Gabe has honed his melodramatic edge to an unprecedented and dangerous sharpness. Tension and drama surround my latest batch of brew. (it’s trapped within a keg with a clogged output tube) Isaac plays piano now, and has a recital coming up this Friday. In related news, if Carol hears Yankee Doodle five more times she will qualify as clinically insane. Also, Isaac now officially understands chords better than I do. Garfield. I do believe I have read an unsafe amount of Garfield in recent weeks. Every week Carol goes to the library and comes home with books for the boys to read. They devour them in the first day or two, but Garfield always persists. The boys both read and love everything from Garfield at Large to Garfield by the Pound. Today they came home with Garfield minus Garfield, though I suspect some of the subtleties might be lost. I haven’t been writing. The ideas are still there. I have half a dozen partially formed works of short fiction spinning around in my head. I’ve just been busy. I could be sacrificing quality time with my wife (watching mediocre tv) or quality time with my boys (Garfield) or quality early morning time (sleep), but none of those have seemed all that appealing lately. Soon that will change. I’ll get the early morning writing sessions going again and restart the oh-so-glorious production of words. Starting here. Thank you for your patience.
Running hurts. That’s what I always thought, anyway. I remember skipping out on running during tennis practice in high school. I remember hating it when I didn’t. I remember scoring very poorly on the “run a mile” portion of phys ed. I’ve always hated running. So I’ve signed up for a half marathon. It’s just a half, so it’s not like it’s a whole marathon or anything. Oh, and I’m not fast. I have no real desire to be fast. My goal is to run the whole distance. That’s it. It’s going to take me a while. Running a mile in thirteen minutes might actually be somewhat stretching the definition of “running”, but I don’t care. By the end of May I need to be able to run thirteen of them. Speed is not my greatest concern. The odd part is that I am finding that I enjoy it. Some part of my adult brain has broken in such a way that this is no longer an unpleasant activity. In fact, I look forward to it. After I pick up my boys after a long day at work I run a loop around the field at school. Every time I pass, they cheer. Even without my adoring fans, running has been a great way to enjoy this freakish March weather. Running with nothing to run from — I’ve always mocked runners, but here I am. Wish me luck. |
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