Spring Reversed

Reversed Spring

My annual migration took place last week.  I left my home in SW Florida to spend a few summer months with family near St.Louis.  This area was home to me for most of my life. 

It’s always bittersweet - this journey.  I want to be here to inspect the grandkids to see that they’re still as wonderful as I brag to everyone they are.  I want to continue construction on my cottage in Missouri.  But, I’ll miss my friends at home in Florida too.  What a delicious dilemma! 

When I left Florida, summer was just breaking.  My roses were pushing out big, fat red flowers and the grass was growing so fast you could almost hear it!  North Florida had fields of ripe wheat ready for the harvest crew.  As I traveled north, it was as though I was seeing spring all over again but in reverse.  Through Alabama the crepe myrtle was glorious.  Not so glorious is the evidence of the recent tornados.  Tennessee and Kentucky fields along rivers were entirely flooded, but higher fields showed corn 4 inches high and still green, wheat.  Southern Illinois is normally fields and fields of corn or soybeans.  Now it looks like a huge brown lake. 

Mother Nature is a fickle gal.  In the hills above the flooded bottomland, Honey Locust and Catalpa dangle their fragrant white flowers to the breezes.  I came too late to catch the redbud.  The weather is fickle too.  I’m using the heater in my RV tonight, but in the last week I’ve had the A/C on as well.  By June, the temperatures will settle down with less fluctuation.  Storms will still dot the calendar.  Hopefully will no loss of life or property.   ~pam

The Legacy of Joyce Sawyer

A rich, thick fragrance meanders through my neighborhood from two mature gardenia shrubs.  They are almost 6 feet tall and covered with creamy white, exotic blossoms.  Their fragrance evokes the time when a gardenia corsage was the hoped for thrill of any girl invited to the Prom. 

In what I call my ‘other life’, living in the mid-west, growing a gardenia indoors was a challenge with few successes.  They just don’t like dim light, dry indoor air and the times I was too busy and forgot to water them.  Mealy bugs and white flies feasted on their waxy leaves.  If I was lucky enough to get buds, they’d drop at the first sign of my neglect. 

Here in SW Florida, their luxurious blooms lend dignity to any old building.  I’ve seen them beside a shabby shed needing paint, an old abandoned mobile home, and as foundation plantings in front of very nice, cared for, homes.  This climate is their home and they flourish in it. 

It always evokes a bit of nostalgia to see a rose bush, peony, or spring bulbs living far beyond the years of the original gardener.  Wandering in an abandoned farmstead you can still see evidence of the gardener who lived there at one time.  Iris, an old-fashioned rose, daffodils, spirea – none would be there except for the planting of a long ago gardener. 

I like to imagine what the life might have been like for that farm wife.  She might have put her coffee grounds out to feed her flowers.  She may have watered them with her dishwater when the well or cistern was almost dry.  Did she overwinter her geraniums on a windowsill? 

I’ve never met Joyce Sawyer.  I don't know how many years ago she planted the gardenias I enjoy today - it was before I came.   Joyce has passed away – but the legacy of her lovely gardenias lives on.   ~pam

Breathing Thru Clenched Teeth

Ah, the love bugs, love bugs, love bugs - a plague of biblical proportions.  As a transplant from the mid-west, I’m still amazed at the number of them everywhere.  A trip in the car means a car wash as soon as I get home.  They are so thick that after a few miles, I have to stop to clear the windshield. 

Am I complaining?  Not at all.  I can remember mid-west winters when the ice or snow covered the windshield after a few miles and we’d have to stop to get out and clear the windshield.  If I have to clear a windshield, I’d rather do it at 80 degrees than 20 degrees. 

Fortunately, love bugs don’t bite, sting, or chomp on foliage – they are all out for one thing – love!  A popular Florida novelist wrote of a promiscuous friend “(he) has the sexual discipline of a lovebug”. 

We had a lovely cool, breezy, morning today.  A great opportunity to take a bit of a bike ride!  As the air temperature began to rise, the love bugs began to fly again.  That put an end to my ride.  I rode home breathing through clenched teeth to keep from inhaling them.  ~pam

White noise

White noise:  A term I never heard of until a few years ago.  Now, I have my own living example of it. 

Pretty Boy is a green parakeet I am fostering until his momma gets out of Rehab.  His soft twitters, cheeps and occasional “pretty, pretty, pretty” fill in the background of the house with pleasant sounds.  My recently visiting granddaughter said it was like “white noise”.  I like that term.  Pretty Boy does it to perfection.  

Wish I had a photo of him.  But don't know how to do it without cage wires in the way.  I tried shooting through the door and he went into a panic with that big, black eye poked at him.  Don't blame him at all. 

I told Ginny that when I get old(er) and can’t get around anymore to care for doggies, would they get me a parakeet as a pet?  It won’t have to be walked, or fed expensive food.  Parakeets hit a high point of popularity when I was a teen.  We had them when I was a kid. 

Anyway – what is the definition of “old”?  It seems “old” is always about 5 to 10 years older than I am at the time.  At this rate, I’ll never get there. 

Are there any pet bird lovers reading this?  What kind of bird do you have?  Are you glad to have one?~pam

Happy Easter!

What is the weather like for you this Easter morning?  I have to remember Easter isn’t always in spring.  It depends on what hemisphere you live in. 

As would be expected in SW Florida it will be hot later in the day.  We’ll take off our church clothes and resort to our uniform of flip-flops and T’s.  My kids who live near St.Louis will have rain and maybe storms again. 

I remember soggy Easter days when I was a kid in the 1950’s.  A pretty new dress, maybe patent leather shoes and every thing was wet!!  Easter egg hunts on soggy turf.  Gathering cracked muddy eggs.  This was before the sanitary plastic eggs with bagged jelly beans inside.  Advance to the 1960's - I remember one dress I made for my little girl.  It was pale yellow with a white dotted swiss pinafore.  She looked like a lemon sherbet.  Then, my two little boys in white shirts and tiny bow ties.  As soon as dad would tuck in one shirt tail, the other boy’s shirt tail was flapping. 

This Easter is a quiet one for me with just my two small dogs and a fostered parakeet.  I am not at home.  I’m in Central Florida for a few days in my RV so I can paddle the many springs nearby.  Summer will come any time now making the sun too intense for this old hide. 

truth and truer truth

A good novel has a way of speaking a truer truth.

Non-fiction writing has a truth, but a good novel can say a truer truth.  I read that somewhere or heard my old English Prof. say it in class.  Its somewhat like attempting to explain with words what can only be felt. 

My teen granddaughter has been visiting from Missouri for a while and we’ve done so many things I like to do while she’s been here in SW Florida.  Spring is almost summer – days have been sunny, hot and dry.  No rain while she’s been here.  Perfect!

We were kayaking one of the broad, tidal creeks of Charlotte Harbor.  Like all modern teens, she had her cell phone and was trying to text to a friend what she was experiencing.  She looked up at me, flung out her arms and said “It’s so peaceful, I can’t find the right words to tell Janie what it’s like”.  I said, “I agree, there are no words for this”.  It was such a joy to see her experience and love these things that I love as well.  She leaned back and let her arms extend until her fingertips skimmed the water. 

This granny isn’t a cookie baking granny.  I don’t fit that mold at all.  But like passing along a treasured family recipe, I was privileged to pass along my love of nature and be able to show her the beauty that our world has when we can look with eyes to really see.   ~pam

Its just the gypsy in my soul

Itchy feet -- rolling stone – gypsy -- vagabond – all of those terms could describe my wanderlust.  I love to travel.  I love driving down the road just to see what might be around the next bend – what might be the charm of the next little town I go through.  I like travel even if I’m not doing the driving.  Seeing new things, people and places is a thrill of discovery. 

Recently a friend described a trip she was making saying it’s just a few hours drive from home.  I was happy for her as she loves trips like this.  But in the back of my mind, my hidden gypsy mind said – “only a short trip?  That would be over too soon.” 

By examining my silly response I knew that for me, travel itself is a goal.  The destination is secondary.  I love starting out on a journey of several days in my small motor home.  Gasoline has severely limited my travels, but I pack in as much enjoyment as possible per mile.  This summer I will return to the Mid-West to visit family and friends for a month or so.  I’ll take a slightly different route so I can see different things along the way.  How many routes are there through Alabama?  I’ll let you know.