Rustlin' Abandoned Roses

There it was, a rusty old crane at the end of an old dirt road dotted with a couple of worn tires, various common weeds, some interesting rocks, one frog and a wide assortment of buzzing, biting insects. The perfect subject for daughter Joie's boyfriend, Donavan's photography assignment. Grandson Nate immediately dove for the frog; Joie immediately dove for cover from mosquitoes in the car. Bill went exploring along the river bank, and Donavan started snapping photos.

At first, being an artist, I examined the composition possibilities for the crane. Then I spotted something from the corner of my eye. Delicate fresh red foliage in a ditch filled with rubbish and weeds. I carefully crept near enough to investigate. It was the foliage of a rose. Obviously an old rose. An abandoned and unloved rose who had once graced the garden of some now demolished old home. She must have been bulldozed to the side when the road was made, and now she was begging me to save her from certain extinction.

Seeing that this faded beauty had only brand new growth sprouting from a few large and long dead canes, I used my thumbnail as a knife to cut off a pair of those new red shoots. But there was a big problem. The fragile red canes were already wilting after just a couple of minutes. Because Bill likes a tidy vehicle, there was no left over bottle of water with which to refresh the canes. Luckily, we were all desperate for water ourselves, so we bought some at a gas station up the road. After a bit of pleeding with the storekeeper, I was allowed to take a styrofoam cup to put my new acquisition in, with some of my own bottled water.

I can't understand how none of my companions found my new friend as interesting as I did. As we headed to River Bend Park, I examined her intently. Her canes are reddish green, with mossy growth at the stem around each new leaf. The new leaves themselves, are thin and folded and curly at the tips. They open to be a deep red-brown. I worried that new shoots wouldn't root this time of year, and finding scissors and a hatchet in the back of Bill's car (the scissors were mine, and the need to have a hatchet handy at all times is a remnant from Bill's Boy Scout days) I told him that I'd like him to dig up a small section of the rose when we went back for the "later in the day" photos that Donavan needed.

Heading home, we returned to the abandoned lot. As Donavan went right for the crane, I grabbed my scissors and Bill, his trusty hatchet. He didn't question. He didn't complain. (He is the best husband a girl like me could ever have!) He just climbed into that ditch and started hacking at the roots. All of the roots. I refused to succomb to a sense of guilt for leaving nothing behind, and a fear of responsibility (now I must succeed in making her live!). Bill dug her up, dead canes and all. Then he got a full grocery bag of the soil she'd been growing in, and stuffed her right on top of it. Dousing her bare roots with a bit of H2O, we headed home.

After pouring over all of my rose books, I can't find any foliage like hers. And examining the growth on the root we dug, I suspect that she may be two roses. One that was planted there on purpose and the other, perhaps a sport of it or a return to some older rose.

It's funny how your brain can train your eyes to spot a jewel amongst a passle of weeds. My little brain has trained my eyes to spot plants; all kinds of plants. I identify Joe Pye Weed, Goat's Beard and May Apple in the woods and along the shore of creeks and rivers. I find old herbs like wild mustard, sorrel, cinquefoil and Angelica in meadows. Best of all, I can spot an old abandoned rose just about anywhere.

I have read about "rose rustlers" who rescue old roses from certain extinction. I suppose I am a bit of a rose rustler myself. (I blogged about one earlier this year, on my art blog Little Pink Spaceship Gazette at deberklein.com.) This old girl in the picture is right happy about it, too. She deserves to live; even a place in my garden. And later, if she turns out to be a newly discovered "old rose", a moss or perhaps a long lost damask, I'll see to it that she gets spread around to the right people. If it turns out that she is just a common wild Carolina rose, Shakespear's words come to mind. "A rose by any other name does smell as sweet." I will still enjoy her. The foliage already has made her worth the rescue.

See youn's later, as they say 'round these here parts!

deber

By the way, if any of you could help me identify this foliage before a flower comes about, please feel free to comment! I'll be ever-so-grateful.

(And added later) She is now planted in the yard, right outside the garden fence, where I can water her from the front porch. I know this isn't the best time to transplant, but I think she's going to make it.

What? Me Worry?...I've Got Angels!

Are you a worrier? I'm a worrier. Not that I'd admit to it in mixed company, i.e., people who are "religious". After all, everybody knows that people who are "religious" don't worry. So there. I am "religious". (Actually, I'm not. I'm just a believer.) Because I'm a believer, I know that God is in control. There is nothing I can't handle when I have the Creator of the Universe on my team. I believe all of this to be true.

But the way I really feel about it (as is evident by the fact that I worry so well, though I don't discuss it in mixed company or even like to admit it to myself), is this; why should knowing all that stop me from worrying? Yes, God is mighty and all powerful, good, faithful and loving. If he can create a person from the wind and dust, then he is obviously able to do whatever is necessary, abundant and far beyond anything I could ever do, even with my most fervent and dedicated worrying.

But, lately I have to face it. The world appears to be falling off the edge of the universe. Now intellectually, I know that God can fix that. He can take his first finger and his thumb, and ever-so-gently grab his beautiful planet earth with all of his creation, and set it back in place where it belongs. Right between Venus and Mars. (But then again, I am aware that maybe God wants to let the world splash right into a deep and unknown cosmic ocean. And...I don't know..I just have a problem with that.)

I'm kidding you...a little bit. But not really. Though I try to accept God's will, it isn't always easy. God has a master plan, and if I am to be truely honest with you and with me, his plan doesn't always fit into what I fancy to be my own plan. (In particular, that unknown cosmic ocean plan I mentioned in the paragraph above.)

If God were to come knocking at my door like he did Abraham's, and if he asked me, "Deborah, what do you think? Mars and Venus or Cosmic Ocean? I'll let you pick." I'd say without hesitation, "Well, thanks for asking, Lord. I much prefer the Mars and Venus option. So, that's my pick."

But God isn't knocking on my front door asking me what I want. He does, however, knock "at the door of my heart". And he does listen to my prayers. And I don't even have to tell him the desires of my heart, because he already knows them. Besides, who am I, a mere spot, to argue with Almighty God? (Well, I could. Jonah did, and God was patient with him. So I know he's patient with me...)

There's one cool thing that you and I do have on Abraham: We have the book of Psalms.

Psalm 37, for example, is loaded with comfort and strength. The 40th verse says, "The Lord helps them and rescues them...because they take refuge in Him." And Psalm 91. Oh my gosh! Oh, My God, actually! I want to put the whole thing down here for you. But I'd rather you look it up for yourself. Basically, it says that if we put our trust in God, he will shelter us under his wings. He will command his angels concerning us to guard us in all our ways...lest we dash our foot against a stone.  He will answer our prayers (including those for the people you and I love) and with long life he will satisfy us.

So today, instead of worrying, I'm going to trust. Like Jesus said, worry won't add one second to my life. In the vastness of eternity, our time in this world, my friend, is temporary. There is nothing we can do about it. The greatest amount of time we have to live is actually the time after this life. In that perfect place, we will understand the things we do not now understand. So let's just put our trust in God. Then even if God has plans (like Revelations says) to basically let the world fall into that swirling cosmic ocean, he will gently lift us, you and me, and our precious loved ones up out of it all, and put us in a safe and good place.

That's because God is good. He's really nice, slow to anger, quick to forgive. He is strong and powerful, just and merciful, wise, pure, sweet and wonderful. And so much more.

But my favorite thing of all is this: God is love.

Selah. (And that means, "think about that".)

For the Love of Charlie!

I can hardly remember a time when there wasn't a dog in my life. 

Among the more memorable were: Huckleberry Hound Dog who made an art out of avoiding the dog catcher's snare; Zigzag the Beautiful, a faithful dog who unfortunately jumped the fence to chase loaded dirt trucks; Toby the German Shepherd who jumped the neighbor's six foot fence to get to the "girls"; and Jock, a pound puppy who had first belonged to some college boys and thus had an unnatural fear of beer. The one thing that the dogs in my life had always had in common was that they were all large. That fact combined with the fact that I am not a "good pack leader" eventually led me to conclude that I should never again be the owner of a big dog, even if that was what the family desired. Even if the kids begged and begged and pleaded. Even if they brought one home and tried to seduce me with its huge sad eyes and puppy breath.

So when Jock died after eleven years, I was foot-lose and fancy-dog-free for a time. No more worries. No more missing coffee table legs, no more chewed up shoes or angry neighbors cursing at the kids over dog poop in their yards. After a couple of years without a family dog, however, I began to reconsider dog ownership. I didn't reconsider getting a big dog. A small dog would be a more appropriate selection. After all, the children were all in school leaving me rather lonely. And the front yard was surrounded by a picket fence, making it easy to keep a small dog away from the road, the cars, the neighbors and the neighbor's girl dogs.

So along came Charlie Brave and True. AKA, Charlie Habanero Klein, AKC. Chili Dog, Chuck, and in his later years, "the little fat one".

Charlie was four months old when we adopted him. He looked like a German Shepherd. A six pound trembling German Shepherd with large ears. He was so frightened on that first day that he shivered uncontrollably. Surrounded by my three very excited youngest daughters, it must was overwhelming to be five inches at the sholder and the center of such attention. Especially after having spent several months in the quiet of a pet store window. We took Little Charlie into the yard and sat him down on the grass. He sniffed the soil beneath his paws and began to dig. Like a crazy dog. Dirt flying every whichaway. It was the end of the shivering, and the start of those famous family words, "Dig, Charlie! Dig!"

For some of the males in the house, those first doggie walks were hard on their fragile manly egos. Especially Bill's. He found walking such a small dog to be a humbling, humiliating experience compared to walking a large, ferocious beast who lunged at little old ladies as they passed by with their finely quaffed toy poodles. But it wasn't long before Bill and the other men in the house learned that little tiny dogs have enormous personalities. Chihuahuas are big dogs that come in little packages. They are intellegent and energetic, loyal and brave. Charlie loved people (especially babies). He licked our children's tears away. He danced in the kitchen with the rest of us.

We had Charlie for 16 years before he went on to doggie heaven.  Actually I didn't want to make you sad, but he died just yesterday, after several months of deterioriating health. He was a very old little man, so we had been expecting it. Bill and I buried him in the garden that he loved so much. The garden where he stood his ground with the UPS man, the mail man and any salesman that dared open the gate. The garden where he dug in the dirt and under the fence to go for leasurely walks in the neighborhood, and where he greeted us after a day of shopping.

Charlie was a great little dog and we will indeed miss him.

deber

PS, A note about little dogs: As with all dogs, Chihuahuas must be taught how to behave in public. But unlike large dogs, the public often has to be taught how to behave with them. Men in particular, seem to get the urge to assert dominance over small dogs. They chase, growl and bark at them. They pull their ears and tails. Then they laugh. Ha, ha, ha! That's how you turn a small dog into a mean dog. Think about it. What would happen if a person treated a big dog in such a way? That big dog would start acting like a mean Chihuahua, only with bigger teeth and a deeper voice.

Mothering Grown-ups

Once upon a time I thought that my children would grow up and my job as a mother would be done. Though I love being a mom, I was tired. With a capital "T". And the kids were always fighting and getting into trouble, babies nekked in the front yard, others jumping off the porch into pillows...it was crazy around here. The house was a wreck. Laundry was everywhere. There was never an extra dime in the checkbook. Hardly even time to make more babies, if you get my drift...

So I clung to the hope that some day Bill and I would at last have time to "Spend Together". With money to Spend Together. Alone, without laundry or dishes or poopy diapers and other parently things. Romance and all that stuff that you're desperate for when you're young and have young'uns at home. But now that the kids are all official "grown-ups", I realize that that was a rediculous notion; the dream of a young and idealistic woman.

First off, my friend. Kids never grow up. (I didn't! I still felt like Daddy's little girl at age 57.)

Secondly, did I say romance? Are you kidding? Why is it that when we have kids around all the time, we never have the opportunity, and when we at last have the opportunity, we aren't nearly as interested? Romance, indeed.

As for the house being messy, who cares? And money. Who has money these days, anyway? I can buy sheets without feeling guilty now, and that's an improvement.

And last, did I use the word "alone"? Bill and I are still almost never alone. With our big bunch, someone is always coming home for the weekend, and when that one leaves, another shows up for the week. And the celebrations are constant. Last week was Kathleene's 40th birthday with 30 people at my house, and this weekend is Israel's second with a party at the other grandma's house.

But who's complaining? We are crazy about every one of our kids and their families, too. We are blessed to the max.

(By the way, folks, when it comes to sex, everybody knows that sex is overrated in our society...at least, that's what Bill and I think we should keep telling ourselves. But we don't. We just complain. Grope and complain behind our grown children's backs...)

What brought this all on is JoAnna. Still Baby Joie, to me. She is 25 and is moving to New York City next month. It's such a big deal for Bill and me, as all of our children but for our California girl, live relatively nearby. This weekend Joie is flying up there to check out apartments in the big city. Alone. I'm a nervous wreck, but not as much of one as she is. (If it wasn't for prayer, I'd not be able to let her go at all.) Being the last week of summer (and Bill's in the school building business,) Bill can't go with her. And while I would really like to help, and think I am best at these things, I am unable to do so due to advanced arthritis. I've been to New York before, and know how hard it is to get around up there. If Joie were moving to Charlotte or Atlanta or Los Angeles (or any place that has parking places instead of subways) I would be able to assist in the hunt for a home. But not New York City.

So JoAnna is all grown up today, whether she likes it or not. Whether I like it or not. And she was my little Joie just yesterday. That's life, my friend.

So to you young mothers, I say, "Enjoy!" Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!!! Enjoy this moment. Enjoy this day. I know it's hard sometimes. You're tired. You're sick of washing laundry and doing homework. The house looks like one of those reality shows where they make some poor packrat throw out everything. To top it all off, you haven't got a moment to romp with your hubbie, and you are young enough to be desperate.

Darlin'. Listen to a woman who understands (believe me) how you're feeling right about now. All too soon, your youngsters are going to be grown-ups just like my kids are. Just like you are. One day. Some day. But before you start feeling all sad and depressed, I am here to assure you that you needn't worry about ever losing your job as a mother. Because that, my dear, will never happen.

Once a mother, always a mother. And that's that.

Deber

PS: Bill and I have two (2) baskets of laundry in our bedroom as a regular lifestyle. Laundry is forever...

Billy's Submarine

My husband Bill has some mighty fine stories to tell. Being a construction engineer, he was born with an amazing obsession for figuring out not only how to make things, but how to make things work. Then he would attempt to make them for himself and his faithful following of fortunate friends. Growing up in Miami Beach in the 1950's and 60's, little boys like Bill had a never ending supply of construction trash and 365 days of good weather (except for the occasional hurricane, of course). Good weather which provided year 'round opportunities for making stuff and then getting into trouble for doing so.

Forward to 2008:

About this time last year, I decided to create some new additions to my paper doll series. Not that I my paper dolls were actually to the "series" point at that stage; I had made two 17" paper dolls and originally desired to create paper dolls as "portraits". (I'm still working on that.) But I'm always up to the "newest" challenge, so I decided to go beyond the paper doll idea to a more complex project. "Billy's Submarine" is the first of the two projects I finished last October.

Now, I don't suppose everyone would call "Billy's Submarine" a paper doll. Though it is made of paper, it isn't exactly a doll. But in the spirit of paper dolls, it's windows can be filled with six interchangable faces, it has two flags to fly, two different fish for the hook, and three types of "feet". But the grand finale is the reversible and all ferocious octopus which can cling to the sides of the submarine, or to the ladder; or he can "float" alongside Billy's sub. Everything can be changed around, added and removed.

Very paper-doll-esque, if you ask me.

This piece was obviously inspired by one of our family's favorite crazy amazing stories oft told by my man, Bill. He and I aren't finished with this story yet, but I just couldn't wait any longer to present "Billy's Submarine" to you.

Deber

Missing Ingredients and Other Sneaky Things

One of my favorite treasures is a collection of hand written recipes which my mother sent to me the first winter I moved away from home. They are written in her familiar handwriting on note cards now stained from 31 years of use. It must have taken Mama quite a while to locate all those recipes and then to write them down. To this day, I can't look at them without picturing her at the kitchen table before a stack of open cookbooks, pen in hand.

Shocking, but true...

I have several friends who tell me that when their mothers gave them their family's recipes, key ingredients were deliberately left out! Naturally, the recipes never tasted quite right. My sister Jeanie says there must be a simple explanation for such a thing. Maybe the cat jumped on the table whilst chasing a mouse, distracting the woman as she lovingly recorded her recipe for squash casserole. Or one of the children entered the house in need of stitches so that she lost her place upon returning to Grandma's Goulash. Or the ink pen ran dry just as she got to the secret ingredient in Auntie's lamb kabobs.

Jeanie refuses to believe that any woman could do such a thing deliberately. To her own child, especially. (Then again, Jeanie still leaves pebbles under her pillow, hoping the Tooth Fairy will bring her money...but that's a story for another day.)

Not everyone is so nice, my friend.

For Christmas, daughter Sydney wanted me to make a book for her with family recipes written in my hand. It was a lovely idea.

I found the perfect book, too; a handmade one with a brown leather binding and a sash which wrapped about the book securely. The kind of book that said "heirloom" without so much as a word upon the outside. Sydney excitedly anticipated those special entries from dear old mom. But there was one little problem. Mom.

First and most shallow, I don't always fancy my own handwriting. I know enough about handwriting analysis to know not to write when I'm in a bad mood, depressed, sassy, sarcastic or tired. That leaves about five minutes a week for me to write in the cookbook, but it takes about 15 minutes to write down a recipe. I also realized that when I cook, I seldom measure, adding a dash of this and that which varies from one session to the next...What if I accidentally leave something out? I'll go down in posterity as One of Those Mothers.

Last Christmas, though I was distracted with a serious matter, I did manage to write one recipe in Syd's book. My famous Spaghetti. After that, I realized that I would need to organize the book before I write another, like Grandma Klein's Dobish Torte, a dessert. It was overwhelming, considering everything else that was going on. So the book sat on the buffet, lonely and forlorn.

I am now ready to resume writing recipes in Sydney's new cookbook.

But alas, after much searching and a call to her cell phone, Sydney tells me that she took the book to her apartment where it is gathering dust from lack of use (because it is empty, still). Most assuredly, she is disappointed, disenchanted and a little bit let down.

After just a bit of cajoling, Sydney is returning the book to my kitchen, as I now have an idea about how to organize the recipes. I also accept the fact that my handwriting is that of an artist, making it more interesting. And Sydney knows that she may have to cook with me in order to get every recipe right.

But there is still one problem I almost forgot about: I have five daughters and three sons. They're all going to want one.

Like Scarlet always says, "I'll worry about that tomorrow."

Until then,

Deber

"F" Not Just a Letter in the Alphabet

I have said this before, though you may never have heard it from me. In our so-called advanced society, the "f" word is highly overused.

I blame it on "the Smurf" effect. If you ever saw the Smurfs cartoon, as I did thousands of times with all my kids, you know what I mean. In the cartoon, the word "smurf" was used to express goodness of every kind. "This flower smells so smurfy!" or "We're going on a smurfnick." Sometimes it was a noun and other times a verb. It was also an adjective or adverb. Everything morphed into smurfing smurfiness to Smurfs.

Now Hollywood on the other hand...

By Hollywood's standards (set by Mel Gibson in the 1970's, from my recollection, possibly with later influence from the Smurfs), the average character may use the "f" word as many as twenty three times in one paragraph. Thanks to them, young people now make entire sentences using only the "f" word. Oh, sure. They add an ending, like "ed" or "ing" or "s" where appropriate, and throw in some conjunctions and prepositions here or there, but basically, it's all in how one uses one's voice inflection that makes the communication understandable.

Back in the olden days when I was growing up, the "f" word didn't exist in polite company. As a matter of fact, I never heard it until I was in junior high school, when I heard it from my mother, of all people. In a rare, foolish moment of disrespect, I had shot her "The Bird". I didn't know what a "bird" meant until she angrily told me, using the new-to-me and all appropriate "f" word. Of course, I don't think she realized that I had never even heard that word before and didn't know what it meant, either. Much to her dismay, she then had to define that word for me, as well.
It was shocking to a girl like me (what was "bad sex", anyway? I didn't ask...it must be horrifying!) who spent every afternoon in front of the TV watching reruns of "The Flying Nun". Not shocking simply because it was coming from my mother, who did enjoy a throwing out a spirited "dammit!" for special occasions; but shocking that such an ugly word existed at all! I still don't like that word.

Especially, I confess to you with some reluctance, when it bursts forth from my own "girl raised in the South" lips. Shamefully I admit that there was a time in my youth when I used that word a lot. A lot! I had so much anger, and that's all I had to express it, (because killing someone wasn't an option...) Eventually I realized how offensive that word was to many people. And I found myself actually not wanting to offend others for a change. So I abandoned the "F" word entirely (except for necessary use on the infamous "special occasion" in place of Mamma's "dammit!").

Alas, now the dreaded "F" word has so saturated our society that it is sneaking back into my own language. It's as contagious as influenza. Sadly, you can only hear it so many times and not find it slipping out of your own mouth. At least if you have as little self-control as I do.

That's why I am sick of hearing it in movies and on television, in the mall and coming from the man behind the curtain. I mean, why is it funny when Larry David says the "f" word? He's a grown man, and he can say it if he wants to. (Okay, sometimes it's funny!) But really. It's getting so cliche' that if that's all you've got to make someone laugh at you, then are you really funny at all?
What my mother used to say (when she wasn't explaining what "a bird" was) was that if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all...but that isn't the one I wanted to use in this instance. Hmmm...Oh, yeah. She said that if you can't express yourself well without using curse words, then you have a limited vocabulary and must not be very intelligent.

She was a wise woman, my mother. A wise and smurfy woman.
Until next time,
Deber
After reading this to my sister Jeanie (who recounted a similar "bird" experience with Mamma, where Mamma fell against the wall in shock) she asked, "What's everybody going to say when the "f" word is no worse than saying "dammit"? Will we even have an option?" Maybe we'll return to "dammit!", spoken forcefully.