Summertime - and the livin; is easy. NOT!!

Dawn of a summer morning looks serene and quiet.  Compared to a spring morning with the cacophony of bird song, there is actually little sound to reach the ears.  But, under-laying that surface quiet is the energy bursting from the sun – a different kind of ‘noise’ if you will. 

In high summer, the most fierce energy is the relentless, burning sun.  Thunderstorms which would cool us a bit, if violently so, seem not strong enough to push themselves against the power of the sun.  Even pernicious weeds in fencerows wilt against this intense sun energy. 

Local farmers have labored in 100 degree heat to cut and bale hay for winter use.  Two tractors with sun burned men chug back and forth across the field cutting, drying, windrowing the hay for three searing, hot days before it’s ready to roll up into bales.  A lot of energy in man power, sweat and tractor fuel are flung against the face of the summer sun

A well-known summer resident is the Red Tailed Hawk.  They literally ‘make hay while the sun shines’ in these suddenly scraped fields.  Mice, quail and rabbits have lived safely under cover of the tall hay until now.  It must seem like a war zone.  Hawks dive and strafe the field like fighter bombers.  Mice and rabbits flee in panic to safety under my porch only to find another danger – the teeth and paws of my twelve pound terrier. 

Gershwin wrote “Summertime – and the livin’ is easy”.  Well --- not always or for everybody.

Making Hay While the Sun Shines

I’m not an authentic country girl.  I grew up in a big city of concrete, asphalt and brick.  But – I think I should have been born a country girl.  That’s where my heart lies. 

The farmers around my summer home are working in the worst kind of summer heat cutting and baling hay.  The hotter the sun, the better for putting up hay.  One evening, just before predicted 3 rain free days, I saw his tractor going back and forth across the field cutting hay after dark by the headlights of the tractor.  Twice the next day, he came with a rake and turned over the fresh cut hay to make it dry and cure.  Third day, he was out again doing the same thing.  By evening, he had his baler going.  It rolls along behind the tractor appearing to do nothing.  Then, suddenly, it opens it’s big mouth and spits out a big round bale of hay that goes bouncing across the field to a stop.  Later, they'll line up these big balls along a fence line out of the way of the second cutting in fall.   

Squadrons of Barn Swallows escort me as I mow the field in the early evening with my own little tractor and mower.  I like that analogy.  It makes me think of scenes from old black & white war movies.  All I can see are their flittering silhouettes against the fading summer sky.  They appear from nowhere after my first pass of the field.  Their aerobatics are quite remarkable.  They dive and swoop after dislodged bugs in steep patterns too extreme for even the most accomplished air show pilot.

This field takes almost an hour for me to mow.  By the time I’ve made a dozen passes, I see some swallows sitting on the elec. line, preening and resting.  I suppose they’ve had their fill.  Others are still following me across the field.  The supply of bugs and the supply of swallows apparently is neatly matched. 

Back and forth, across and down I mow over and over and over again.  Somehow, it seems almost meditative.  Not boring at all.- like following a knitting pattern.  Knit 2, Purl 2 around and around. 

Normally I don’t consider myself a patient person.  Waiting for an upcoming trip, waiting in a grocery store line, or for a very long stoplight makes me fume.  But, the kind of patience needed for mowing a field or knitting a sock is strangely comforting.  Why is that?  How is it different? 

Old Dogs & Old Tricks

 Sometimes I’m amused at myself.  My old hands are having trouble doing the most simple things that I’ve done for a lifetime without even a second thought.  My gramma complained about Ol’Arthur who had taken to living with her.  He’s gotten into my right hand and I’m a ‘rightie’.  A round doorknob is so painful to grasp and turn.  I’m gradually changing all doorknobs to the lever style.  The latch on the bathroom door in my rv requires me to press a button in with my thumb to release the latch.  Just can’t do that anymore.  I’m trying to learn to do things with my left hand instead of my right. 

Therein lies the new problem.  I’ve always bragged that I do many things with my left hand.  I play the guitar a bit – left hand fingers the frets.  I use my left hand on a computer mouse and use the keyboard in the correct method – left hand on a,s,d,f.   I knit, crochet and do hand quilting.  All these things require the left hand to do certain things. 

But, HA!      The simple issue of learning to pin clothes to a clothes line with the left hand seems to be impossible!  How many miles of diapers have I hung in a lifetime?  I know how to hang clothes – just do it with my other hand.  Simple, huh?  But my left hand just seems to be a dummy trying to manipulate the pins, squeeze them over the clothes securely and smooth the item with my right hand.  I fumble the pins, drop wet clothes on the ground, pinch my fingers, if I squeeze the pin a bit off center it goes sailing across the ground to be pounced on by my little dog.  It’s funny and frustrating at the same time. 

Probably, the issue is my re-learning curve is pretty steep.  No problem if the left hand was taught it’s duty from the beginning.  But trying to switch?  Pretty tough.  This old dog is struggling to re-learn an old trick.   ~pam

I’m in love with words – how they sound, what they mean and the uncountable shades of meaning they contain.

Sympathy is the word I’m thinking of today.  I’m not going to a dictionary – these are ways I see the use of the word. 

To agree with some one’s opinions or feelings is to be “in sympathy” with them.  When tuning my guitar, sometimes other strings vibrate “in sympathy” or agreement in tone with the one plucked.  In an art sense, two lines with the same curves or angles are said to be “in sympathy” with one another. 

Now enter the conundrum:  In human relationships we offer our sympathy to a neighbor or friend who has gone through a traumatic experience - trying to say, I care, or I want to help.  I always thought it was the kind, caring thing to do.  Just recently, I found out what it’s like to be on the receiving end of this sympathy.  I was surprised at my reaction.  I hated it! 

Recently, in a novel I was reading, the main character has had a series of miscarriages.  She began avoiding friends because she couldn’t stand any more expressions of their sympathy.  Each expression of sympathy from a friend dredged up the pain all over again when she was trying to forget the incident and go on with life.  That’s what I was doing too.  I stayed away from people so I wouldn’t have to dredge up all the crud to explain it and be polite and thankful for their expression of sympathy.  A close relative is experiencing the same avoidance of people who want to express sympathy for the coming elimination of her job of nearly 12 years.. 

Our culture says it’s the caring thing to do – to express sympathy.  I’ve always done that. 

Now, I will try to find another way to express sympathy and caring.  Maybe just a friendly wave, or a chat about something entirely off the painful subject?   If the person wants to talk about the incident, they will.  How do you handle expressions of sympathy?  Have you ever been on the receiving end until your reaction was “Enough Already”?   

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