Author: Diana Blair Revell

The air was dangerous on Day 5, with alerts and alarms for sufferers of asthma, COPD, and other breathing disorders. I knew it was coming Monday night when I drove home from writing group, kept thinking about that commercial where the elephant sits on the woman’s chest. I like that elephant. I like that he follows the woman around after she gets whatever the chemical is that makes her breathe easier. That doesn’t mean I like having asthma or the feel of a ton of flesh sitting on my chest.

So I stayed in. Really in. I wrote a little, cleaned some, worked on my calendar, answered some long overdue email, and wished I could be outside. Murphy was delighted to have me within reach, despite the chance that I might drop to the floor, slip a plastic cone over her head, and wiggle her stiff old legs. Gordo was pleased because he could graze in peace with no one chasing him across the lawn. And I have to admit that I was a tad pleased to sit with the beginning pages of Elizabeth Warren’s book.

I spent all day, and part of the evening, in The Cellar. The carpet cleaners came at 1:00 o’clock. Due to some unwise planning on somebody’s part, the major traffic pattern in our house is carpeted. The rest, where nobody walks much, is hardwood. We would have preferred hardwood everywhere, but the carpet had just been installed when we moved in, and we wanted to get the good out of it. (I think “get the good out of it” might be another Southernism.)

About 3:00 o’clock, a dear, dear friend called to ask if she could stop by. She was on the opposite side of Nashville, shopping at Opry Mills. It took Maggie a long time to get across town. The traffic was atrocious. When she drove up, I waved her in for big hugs. And she brought a birthday present. The card has a queen cat on the cover who said, “Why celebrate your birthday on just one day?” Inside, it said, “We all love celebrating your birthday month!” Perfect. Just perfect. Then I unwrapped a flamingo bulletin board. Maggie remembered that I like flamingoes one day when she saw the board at a  yard sale.

We caught up. She and her husband have been through a really hard time for over a year, with Jim in treatment for cancer. When I learned that he likes peaches (and Maggie doesn’t), I sent her home with four China White peaches that my son brought from Pratt’s Orchard the first of the week.

I couldn’t say how many subjects we touched on, but the time together was therapeutic. How fortunate that I was “in” for the day–for the celebration!

Day 6–today–held two commitments, a dermatologist appointment for Dad and a piano lesson for Carly. I awoke early, my hands and feet itching, and a bit nauseated. 4:00 A.M. I went to sit in my regular reclining spot on the couch. I read a while, dozed a while. I planned to get out early to wet down the gardens in the back. Dave generously took care of all the pots last night since I planned to leave at 9:00 A.M. for the physician appointment.

Mom volunteered to cook a pork roast for lunch, so I knew I would not cook today. After physical therapy with Murphy, I doused the butterfly garden, the mini-rose and herb site, and set the system for the large corner garden. I came inside to make a proposal to Dave.

“How about if you take Dad to see Dr. Jacobsen, and I’ll finish your watering out front?”

I didn’t have to ask twice. Dave sees Dr. Jacobsen, too, so he could be good help to Dad. And I could take my time, run in and out to finish making fake rain, and harvest anything that was ripe in the vegetable garden.

I brought in cherry tomatoes (dozens and dozens), Asian eggplant, okra, and three kinds of peppers. And one large tomato. Just one ripe big tomato. Vicky drove up outside The Cellar door. We talked “first day of school,” just a half-day, and decided she would call after lunch so that we could settle on a time for the piano lesson. I convinced her to take eggs, peppers and cherry tomatoes. She collected a huge watermelon that Dad saved for the family.

I took the okra next door to ask Mom if she thought it was still good. Okra gets tough when it gets big, and the okra hadn’t been cut for days.

“It looks fine. Now, if that were regular old green okra, we wouldn’t be able to use it.” Our okra is purple. Dad said he couldn’t find any regular old green okra seeds this year. I’m glad he didn’t.

“Are you okay?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “My hands and feet are itching so bad.”

“There’s some Benadryl in my bedroom.”

“I don’t want to be sleepy.”

“Why not? You don’t have to do another thing today.”

“Piano lesson.”

“You’ll be able to take a nap before she gets here. I’ll cook that okra tomorrow.”

“I think it better be cooked today. I’ll cook it.”

I managed to fry okra and slice some tomatoes, but after lunch (very outstanding!), I hit the couch. Vicky called at 1:30 to say the kids were both ready to stay at home, just a little frazzled from first-day nerves.  I went back to sleep and woke myself snoring.

Back downstairs, I watched Gordo and Tiny graze. I caught Gordo on camera. I’ll have to show the pictures later because some technical mishap doesn’t allow for an upload.

Now that I’ve recounted most of the excitement from today, I wonder if I’ve just had a boring day and don’t know it. I know I’m happy with it.

Jameson and Carly were in the den when I staggered out of bed, their usual habit. Last night we agreed that we would get breakfast and get over to the playground and ball field early. I told them we had to beat the heat, and that they were going home mid-day since I was going to my writing group’s weekly meeting.

“Y’all go get your clothes on and I’ll make breakfast. And pack your bags, too.”

I threw some bacon in a pan and pre-heated the oven. Jameson has become a connoiseur of gravy. His preference is bacon gravy, although I understand he also eats sausage gravy at  home. When I reached for the frozen biscuits, I realized I was a couple short. I knew where I could get some more.

Mom is never out of bed before 7:30. I hit the passageway between our house and their apartment and tiptoed through her bedroom to the kitchen. Her biscuit bag was almost full, so I took two out and snuck back home. She was still snoring.

Jameson wore long black shorts and a black shirt with no sleeves. He showed me his assortment of baseball socks and his new cleats. “And Carly is wearing my black baseball socks,” he said. Her black, purple, and green workout ensemble didn’t look bad with the black knee socks, even with the shiny hot pink shoes.

“I don’t want a biscuit,” she said. Now, Carly always wants a biscuit, and some bacon, and some of Grandmama’s blackberry jelly.

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.

Jameson stepped in. “Grammy, she’s always grumpy just after she wakes up. She’ll be okay.”

“I am not!” she said.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I asked.

“What do you have? I don’t know what I want until I see what you have.”

I stirred the flour into the pan and added milk. “I have cereal, sandwich thins, English muffins….”

“What kind of English muffin?”

The gravy progressed nicely.

“Plain. They’re in the freezer downstairs.”

“Oh.”

“How about an apple with peanut butter?” I asked.

“No peanut butter, just an apple.”

I dug through a drawer for the apple slicer.

Carly announced last year that she only likes peanut butter on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I thought perhaps she had changed her mind. No.

“I have some boiled eggs,” I said, and she nodded her head.

She emptied out the round yoke and gobbled the white.

“So I suppose you don’t like the yellow part?” I asked.

“Right.” Then she whispered, “I don’t want to go the playground.”

“I suppose you could stay with Grandmama,” I said, “because we promised Jameson last night we’d go to the baseball field today. You agreed, remember?”

“I still don’t want to go.”

“She’s just grumpy,” Jameson said.

After a little PT session with Murphy and Carly’s change of heart, we packed our snack bag with chips, M&M’s, and drinks, then headed across the street and through a neighbor’s back yard to the elementary school grounds. Hard little oval balls caused me to stumble.

“Pears,” Jameson said.

“Are they? Where’s the tree?” I asked.

“Grammy, it’s right there.” He pointed just to the right and up. “Look, some are rotten.” He scuffed the grass with his cleats and then led the way to the dugout of the first baseball field. “I know, I know,” he said, “I’m watching out for their roses.” The neighbor’s boundary with the school property is lined with light pink floribundas.

He set his bag down, unzipped it, and started hauling out gloves and balls.

“I don’t want to play baseball. I want to go to the secret playground,” Carly said, referring to a fenced soft-track area tucked between kindergarten and first grade portables.

“How about if we play at the secret playground for a while, and then work out on the bases?” I offered.

“How long?” Jameson asked.

“Maybe fifteen minutes. You know, we have to budget our time. I told your mom I’d have you home right after lunch.”

“Where are we going to lunch?” Carly asked. “Can we go to Taco Bell?”

I waited for a competing suggestion from her brother. Nothing.

He shrugged and gave in–to all. “Okay, let’s go over to the secret playground. I guess we can call that our warm-up.” He gathered his equipment and zipped his bag.

Most of the portables had a car in front. The teachers were there, getting ready for the first day of school, Wednesday, August 6. A smiling young woman in a white sundress with a clipboard and a map emerged between buildings. She was the new principal, I could tell. She smiled.

“You’re getting ready, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “and I have to figure out who’s in which portable.” She scribbled on the map.

Carly is almost too big for the secret playground. She grabbed some twisting round bars and swung herself from one to the other until she reached the other side. The last time we were at the playground, she could not make it from one bar to the next and I had to hold her up. Jameson ran for a while on the rolling log, then went to his bag. He tossed a baseball in the air and caught it.

“You want me to throw with you?” I asked. I wore one of the three or four gloves he brought and we tossed the ball back and forth. I’m sure he was surprised at how good I am with a baseball glove–so much better than I am with a football.

When I announced that the warm-up period had ended, Carly begrudgingly left the slide and took my hand as we trekked to the baseball field. All three of us met in the dugout. Jameson handed Carly a glove. She’d already picked up the bat.

“Carly, take this glove and get on first base. We’ll work out on the bases.”

“No, I’m going to bat first.”

“We said you would go through all the bases. Don’t you want to practice?”

“Jameson, you cannot tell me what to do.”

“Don’t you think they’re going to tell you what to do when you play on the softball team?”

“I’m going to bat, I said.”

“You get that glove and get yourself to first base,” he told her, with great command.

She hit the ground with the bat. “No. You’re not going to tell me what to do. I’m going to bat.”

Carly went to the batter’s box and Jameson pitched. He cheered her on. “You almost hit that one!”

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” she announced. “Can’t help it. I’ve got to go.”

Jameson tried to convince her to hide herself in some bushes but it didn’t work. He finally walked her back across the field and across the street to the house and back while I stayed with the equipment. I called after them, “Be sure to watch for cars.” I stood and watched them all the way to the street and kept my eyes in their direction.”

I saw their two little heads as they’d just crossed the street on their return. In the yard with the pears, Jameson stomped the ground repeatedly while Carly watched. Then they eased past the roses and broke into a run on the school grounds.

“Why were you stomping out there?” I asked.

He looked puzzled.

“Stomping the ground,” I said. I showed him what I was talking about.

“Oh, I was stomping on rotten pears.”

“We saw Grandpapa,” Carly said. “He was in the garden.”

“And I got some Oreos,” Jameson said.

“I got some Sour Cream & Onion Ruffles,” Carly added.

“Okay, finish your snacks and let’s get with it.”

I set my water on Carly’s bag of chips to keep the breeze from blowing them in the dirt. I told her to watch them because she might lose them to the wind. The third time she lifted the bag, I forgot to anchor it and, poof, it was on the concrete floor.

“Carly, it finally happened.”

The Ruffles were under the bench, most of them on the ground–or floor–and she gave them a hard look. Jameson tipped his soft drink to finish.

“Grammy, could I just reach under there and get them? I don’t think they’re that dirty.”

I looked at the chips. I looked at her. “I don’t care.”

When she pinched the first one, I said, “Blow on it.”

Really, I don’t think they were that dirty.

Somehow the two managed to switch positions on the field, except that, instead of pitching, Carly manned the outfield. Jameson tossed the ball in the air and hit it straight down whatever base line Carly worked on. Somewhere around the shortstop area, the ball hit her ankle. For a brief moment, I thought she’d shake it off, but then drama took hold and she wailed. In the dugout, I pulled her sock down to get a view. The skin was slightly burned, and although I didn’t see a bruise, I thought one might develop. She had stopped crying for a long time but the wailing and catterwauling continued. Jameson ran to the dugout and tried to hug her. She flailed her arms and yelled some more. Pretty soon, she was alternating between fake crying and stifled laughter. Jameson mimicked her. She changed pitches and tones, volume and pattern. He couldn’t keep up. After all, Carly is an entertainer.

We made one more trip to the secret playground, Carly and I. Jameson said he might be there in a few, but just wanted to sit in the dugout for a while. I figured he would follow as soon as Carly and I started down the small hill past the portables.

“He’s not coming,” Carly said, looking over her shoulder.

“That’s okay. Let’s get to the playground. We only have a few minutes before we have to leave and get lunch.”

“But what if somebody steals him?”

“What?”

“What if somebody steals Jay-Jay?” she asked.

“Nobody’s going to steal him. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“How?”

“How, what?”

“How are you going to keep an eye on him?”

“I’m going to run back and forth between right here,” I patted my foot, “and over there.” I pointed to the gate to the small play area.

On my second run from the playground to my baseball field watching position, the pretty lady in the white sundress stuck her head out from behind one of the portables. “He’ll be okay over there,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

I couldn’t help myself. It was the first time the two had been in separate places when they were in my care. I ran back and forth between the two spots. On my last trip back to the playground (six, I think), Carly ran through the gate.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. “Can’t help it.”

“Carly, it hasn’t been that long….”

“No, this is the other kind.”

“Okay, well, let’s collect Jameson and get going.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We’re going to Taco Bell, and then you’re going home,” I said. “I have to go to writing group.”

“Why? Are you writing another one?”

“Well….” I paused. “Yes, I’m writing another book.”

She gripped my hand. “He’s not there!”

“Oh, he’s there somewhere,” I said. A big knot developed somewhere in my midsection, not because I thought someone had stolen Jameson, but because my brain entertained a plot involving a boy missing from his grandmother’s care, a principal who had thought she was keeping her promise to watch him, and the grammy who was out of breath from running twenty yard sprints for almost fifteen minutes. Just the thought of putting that story on paper was enough to make me hyperventilate.

When we crested a little rise behind the first portable (or last, depending on which direction you might be walking), I saw a spot of black on the top of the fence on the far side of the fields. I waved. “See, there he is.”

“No, I don’t see him. Where is he?”

“He’s sitting on the fence way-y-y-y over there.” I pointed.

“What is he doing there?”

I stopped. “I don’t know,” I said. “Jam-e-son! Come on!” I waved again and the spot dropped to the ground and landed on its feet.

He got to the dugout at the same time that we did.

“Let’s get going,” I said.

“Grammy, it’s not time yet. Can we just work on another base?”

“Carly has to go to the bathroom.”

“Again?” He shook his head. “Where are we having lunch? Oh yeah, Taco Bell. Carly wants to go to Taco Bell. And you’re going to your writing group tonight.”

“Right.”

He finished loading the bag and picked it up. “Grammy, did your book ever get published yet?”

“No, Jameson, not yet. I’m hoping it will, though.”

“Me, too, Grammy. Me, too.”

I call my husband’s ex-wife, Barb Kem, my “stepwife.” I didn’t invent this title. It came from my friend, Linda. Barb calls me her stepwife, too. Our birthdays are just five days apart and our husbands were both born on November 27. As far as I know, none of us has sought the services of a seer regarding our astrological closeness, but I will admit I’ve thought about it.

I’m starting today’s entry early. No, I mean really early. I haven’t even made a pot of coffee. I am in the den in my regular spot, a recliner on the end of the couch next to Dave’s chair. With the house so quiet, Murphy’s dream-yelps cause me to jump a little. She is six feet away in her infant Pack’n-Play.

Okay, so we have a playpen for Murphy. The vet told us to keep her confined at night for at least eight weeks. She’s always loved her big blue crate, a real dog crate, but we decided that pulling her out of the crate while her legs are healing might hurt her–or us–so we’re both more comfortable with the travel crib.

Dad always said a dog making sounds like Murphy is “chasing rabbits.” I think I’ve heard Dave say the same thing. Murphy has never chased a rabbit, even though I’m sure she’s wanted to. No, Murphy is probably dreaming about me, pulling her legs, making her “ride the bicycle,” and rubbing her haunches. She doesn’t like her physical therapy sessions but we’re committed. (The “we” in “we’re” might be the royal version.)

I’m dressed and ready to go. Since it rained last evening (shock of shocks!), I’m headed to the  front garden I should have weeded yesterday.

It’s beautiful out there. The calla lilies are blooming and I know the greens I see this morning will be deeper, brighter, happier than they were yesterday.

Two more Shoulds (and Gottas, too): 1. Re-set the trap for Gordo the (Persistent) Groundhog, 2. Pass along a stack of magazines, 3. Contact the Pyrex company about a bowl I bought with a damaged lid.
6:20 P.M.

I love the shady garden on the south side of the front yard. I finished cleaning up out there just in time to make Corn & Tomato Salad to accompany the marinated chicken breasts Dave grilled. Dave used that time to rake and pick up my weeds all around the large bed. I had to use cherry tomatoes for the salad because I couldn’t find one ripe big tomato on the vines. Now, there are a hundred green ones. I look for them all to ripen just about the same time. I’m accustomed to overload.

I sat on the couch after lunch and contemplated a short nap, but my thinking time didn’t last long when I remembered that I wanted to email the Pyrex company. I’m happy that I seemed to accomplish more today. I’ve weeded through the magazines and stashed them all in a tall bag. Murphy was agreeable for her second of third PT sessions today and that makes me smile. But the joy of all joys on this third birthday month day arrived sometime after lunch with Jameson and Carly. They bounded in the house, loaded down with baseball equipment–or is that softball?

We visited for a while in the den and then they headed down to The Cellar. They consider that my place is their place. When I made it down the stairs, we discussed our schedule for this afternoon and tomorrow. I suggested that today we lollygag and watch movies, and then tomorrow morning, head over to the playground and baseball fields immediately after an early breakfast.

Next negotiation, which movie to watch. I’ve bought movies from the cable company because these kids will watch the same one multiple times. Especially Percy Jackson. Dave reminded me this morning that we have to watch The Lego Movie one more time to break even against renting instead of buying. But first we talked about books.

Jameson asked me if I read the Harry Potter books.

“No,” I said, “I just never got to them.”

“Well, I’m reading them this summer. You know, I was too young when they first came out so I missed out on them. Can we have a snack?”

They laid in a supply of Grammy-junk and then Jameson asked if I thought the Harry Potter movies were available to rent.

We searched and found the first movie.

Now this is the “joy of joys” I spoke about. Who knew? I can’t even explain why I would enjoy sorcery and wizardry so much from an eleven-year-old with little round glasses.  I sat on the couch next to Carly and made frequent trips to the laundry room, the kitchen, the desk. Carly announced at 4:00 o’clock that she was ready for dinner, so I popped some popcorn chicken in the oven (“popped popcorn chicken”–funny) and searched for frozen green beans. Carly must have green beans and mac-and-cheese at Grammy’s house.

So now they’re watching the second Harry Potter movie. I’m watching Gordo graze. I would have set the trap but he pushed the trap around the back yard and got the mechanics stuck. Dad says he’ll fix the trap tomorrow.

One more time. I’m going to set the trap one more time, and then I’ll give up. He’s too smart for me.

Warmer today, lots warmer. Ninety degrees hurts worse now than before that stretch of unseasonal cool weather we’ve had for the last week or so.

I identified my shoulds early. Like, I really should finish weeding the front. I should tie up that sagging morning glory vine on the porch. I should text my cousin James. I should sort all the fabric and notions I lifted out of Mom’s sewing room chest. I should clean up one area of the storage area in the garage. I should make sure I do physical therapy with Murphy at least three times. I should re-vamp my calendar for August and September and print copies for Mom and Dave. I should toss out that dried bouquet on the dining room table. I should gather tomatoes, peppers, okra, melons, and the last of the blackberries. I should re-pot some failing plants from Mom and Dad’s porch. I should do some more work on the unused clothes in my closet. I should make a final trip through my novel and send out query letters. Or letter. I should fold the clothes in the dryer. I should plan Sunday dinner, I should cook Saturday dinner! There was more, so much more.

I know I’m not that much different from anyone reading my shoulds list. We all have lists too long for any human to accomplish in fifteen hours.

Dave called me out of bed a little after 6:00 A.M. On Saturdays, we leave for a meeting at 7:30. I usually refer to these meetings as “my WW meeting.” Before leaving, I lifted Murphy, secured her head in her cone, and gave her physical therapy.

My hair this morning was somewhere in the middle of Rod Stewart, Ellen DeGeneres, and Phyllis Diller in her early years. I sprayed wax finish. I resorted to the curling iron. I got decent enough to go to WW, where I learned that I lost 1.6 pounds this week. We stopped at Wholly Chow for breakfast, a Saturday tradition.

What could I mark off my Should List today? I finished watering about noon, after re-potting two plants. The front beds were still too hard to weed. Dave put more water on them. Mom and Dad din’t want lunch today. Mom was cooking for the church potluck tomorrow–chicken and dressing in the slow cooker–and she thought she’d just fry some chicken for Dad for lunch.

I lifted Murphy from the floor and pulled her cone over her head. She snarls and snaps when I want to move her legs so this is just a protective measure. She’s walking very well today.

I talked with Dave about lunch and dinner. We decided we’d scrounge for lunch and I’d cook stuffed peppers for dinner. I returned to the yard to do a little more and, within half an hour, I was too hot. I sorted the fabric all over the floor in Mom’s sewing room and ate some peanut butter and crackers.

“Dave,” I said, “I’m going to Deborah’s house.” Deborah is a woman who has been helping me with gardening. When I realized that she made every bag and purse that she carries, I told her we should set up an Etsy shop.

“I’ll do the computer work,” I promised her, “and you make the stuff.” We determined that she would start with bags and purses. I assured her there was enough fabric at our house to inventory a small factory. She’s been making some incredibly beautiful purses. Yesterday she made a market bag in just a few minutes. I took more fabric over to her house (remember I got a new supply from Mom’s sewing room) and got a good look at the most beautiful bag I’ve ever seen. It’s a pink rose fabric with garden green trim and lining. Wow.

When I got home, it was time to cook dinner. The stuffed sweet peppers, not bell peppers, were wonderful. I microwaved a couple of Dad’s red potatoes and mashed them up, a perfect and quick complement.

After dinner, I went next door to visit with Mom and Dad. I hadn’t seen them much at all today. One more PT session for Murphy. She didn’t thrash around and throw her head and snarl this time. She made a couple of low growls but I put those legs through their paces. She stood and walked all the way home.

“I’m done,” I thought, but I put dishes in the dishwasher before I settled in.

I didn’t address three-quarters of the list today, but I’m tired. Was I successful? I don’t know. I’m just bound for re-runs of The Big Bang Theory and early bedtime. Hey, not every day is exciting, even the countdown days of Birthday Month. And, by the way, I didn’t tell everything that happened today.

Jameson and Carly are coming tomorrow for a Grammy night!

I don’t know when I decided to celebrate an entire month for my August 8th birthday, but I’ve loved doing it for a long time now. This is Day 1.

This year, I’ve decided to do something that I “should” do every day of the month. Now, I make the rules here, so I get to decide what I should do. If I miss a day doing something I should do, so what? I do not have to do penance, or extra, the next day. No, it’s all my call. What?????? It is MY birthday month!

Today, I threw out some clothes. I’ve been losing a little weight lately, one whole size now, so I have some things I can alter and some things I can’t. I should throw out the ones I don’t want to alter! I started the process, and I have a stack in my bedroom.

I really should get my hair done. See, my birthday is August 8, and I want my hair to look, well, really good. And then, I’ll need to get my hair done again before a trip to Las Vegas in September, so the timing is right. I called Tuesday and moved my August 13 appointment to today!

My hairdresser Amber and I share a birthday. She told me today that her friend from Florida is coming to Tennessee for her birthday. They’ll go to lunch at some wonderful place (there are a lot of those in Nashville) and they’ll visit and laugh and laugh. My hair turned out pretty good.

I should take Mom grocery shopping today. It’s a regular Friday occurence. So we made the trek to Wal-Mart, Ace Hardware, and Piggly Wiggly. It’s exhausting.

Mom picks up prescriptions from the pharmacy, loads up in the bakery and deli, and then waits for me on a bench in the valet parking area. That’s right, I said “valet parking”–at Wal-mart. It’s the only one I know of. We know the attendants well and they give us special attention.

It took almost three hours to fulfill Mom’s list and pick up what i might need, too. This place would not be my choice but I’ve learned to do it well. Then to Ace Hardware for turnip seeds.

Dad planted turnips–for seed– and we harvested a couple of weeks ago, my daughter-in-law Vicky and I. After we mowed down most of the leafy greens, the resident groundhog (Gordo, we named him) gleans and cleans the remainder. I’ve called him every vile name in the book, yelled at him, and baited a live trap almost every day with over-ripe cantaloupe, but Gordo is too smart for me. So far, he eludes capture.

I should set the trap again tomorrow.f

Every morning, Gordo–and another smaller version of Gordo–graze in the back yard. I just looked out and Gordo is still eating. It’s 7:30 P.M.I wonder if he will ever fall for my garden-fresh cantaloupe. He likes it, but he pushes the trap in complete circles to try to reach the ripened fruit. He doesn’t go in the door. Damn groundhog!

I intended to weed the second half of the front beds. I finished the first half yesterday.

Dave watered it all down so that the ground would be soft. It’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. I’m too tired. Wal-Mart has done me in.

Here’s the thing: If Mom didn’t want to shop at Wal-Mart, I don’t think I’d set foot in the place ever again. It’s exhausting.

In the fabric department, I chose some lining and interfacing for purses my friend is making for her online shop. I’m managing the online shop. Was there anyone there to cut fabric?

I nabbed a young man in a company shirt as he walked by. I heard him call “…..associate needed in fabric department.” No one came. I saw a “Co-Manager” coming with someone else looking for something else. I nabbed him in a moment when no one else was asking him anything and he promised to send someone pronto.

It wasn’t pronto, but a woman finallly came and cut the three pieces of material that I wanted.

After checking off every item on Mom’s list, and most of what was on mine, I headed toward check-out. Uh-oh. I forgot to get Cesar dog food, so before I brave the hazard of the check-out lane, I traverse the store to lay in the supply of twelve little Cesar cartons with names like Filet Mignon with Potatoes and Gravy and Senior Chicken with Rice and Herbs.

Murphy had surgery a few weeks ago, had her ACL’s replaced. She’s getting special treatment around this house. It’s debatable if she will ever go back to dry food. At this point, who cares?

As I was choosing the flavors to complete the dozen, a blonde-headed woman (who, at the time, appeared to be about my age) informed me, “I’m so mad at my fiancee, I could wring his neck.”

My reply: “Hmm.”

“We just bought a new car, alright? It’s a [I’ve already forgotten what it was]. Now, I had to lay out the downpayment and now, he doesn’t want to pay wunnnnnnn little bill of mine??? You know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“I told him, ‘Listen, you SOB, if I leave, I’ll take the car AND the baby.'” I noted that she mentioned the car before the baby. I also observed that a sixty-five year old woman would probably not be having a baby. I’m still in a quandary as to what I should have said to her.

It’s okay that I am sixty-five. Today is my first day of Medicare. I signed up for one of those fancy Advantage Plans.

And I’m glad I’m not having a baby.

This morning, it was 65 degrees when I first went to the porch. July 29, and 65 in Tennessee. What in the world?

Murphy stayed inside. Anna, our groomer, cut her hair very short for surgery three weeks ago and it hasn’t grown out yet, so our dog was cold. I wrapped her in a fleece blanket, a routine occurrence, and she lay close enough to the door to make sure I didn’t leave.

The hummingbirds finally came to the feeders. I’ve had a theory for a couple years that our feeders get way too much sun for the hummingbirds’ enjoyment–but not today. I’ve seen lots of hummingbirds this year, but they’re all feasting on the beauties in the butterfly garden. One friend told me, “Maybe they think they have so much to eat in the gardens, so why bother with some old sugar water?”

Maybe she’s right, but this morning they buzzed my head several times, chattering about owning the feeder and my being too close and why are you on the porch, anyway?

The first thing I do every morning is look into the back yard from the bathroom window. Gordo, our resident groundhog, is always there. He grazes on the lawn, doesn’t bother any of the flowers. Well–he’s already mowed down the morning glories on the bird feeders, but since then he’s full on grass with an occasional trip to Dad’s garden. Turns out he likes turnip greens. At least he didn’t eat the cantaloupes. I glanced to the back yard several times to see Gordo calmly eating across the lawn.

I read on some website that groundhogs just l-u-v-v-v cantaloupe, so I set the live trap with cantaloupe. The advice was to put the cantaloupe under the trap so that the groundhog has to work to get it. The first morning’s sunshine, there was a terrapin, a Southern box turtle, in the trap. He wasn’t “trapped,” but he had eaten all the cantaloupe. Since then (several days, maybe weeks), the cantaloupe is always gone and the trap is always pushed just a few feet away from its starting place. Groundhogs eat about a third of their weight in vegetation every day. I swear our Gordo must weight at least as much as Murphy, or more, maybe eighteen pounds. That would be…too much, but he would be plenty large enough to scoot the wire would-be container.

Last year Dad decided Gordo was just too smart for the trap. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we just need to relax and go shopping for a collar and leash. Somehow we’d have to keep Gordo and Murphy separated, though, because Murphy has heard me yell at Gordo. She knows Gordo is a bad, bad boy.

So Murphy is good, Dad is better, the hummingbirds feel welcome, I’ve given up on Gordo, and the weather is perfect. I want to do everything. I want to sit on the porch and write. A new chapter in the current novel. Or maybe I better  take that last trip through the finished novel, just to make sure before I query another agent. Or, oh, I could read! And read! I dare not tell you what I have stacked up to read. Or catch up on “office work”–doctors’ appointments, correspondence, planning. And then there’s the gardening. Oh, how I love digging, weeding, and such. It’s perfect gardening weather. I want to do everything, at once.

The decision is made for me. The veterinarian is on the line. We will send the biopsy from Murphy’s knee surgery to the lab for analysis. Dr. Roche believes that Murphy may have some sort of auto-immune issue that is manifesting in the knees. And then the human doctor office calls began.

I trotted next door with my breakfast and left Dave at the dining table. Dad was feeling very well today. Good news! Mom was ready for water aerobics. Dave would take her to the community center and do his workout in the sparsely-equipped gym. Dad was on his way outside to his garden.

“What do you and Dad have to eat?” I asked Mom.

“Not much,” Mom answered.

“I’ll cook lunch,” I said. “We’ll have some tilapia.” See you later. I’ll be outside.

When I dipped into Mom and Dad’s freezer in their garage for the tilapia, I noticed that Dad had harvested the butternut squash. Out of about thirty five or six were green. I lifted one of those and took it back with me to my kitchen.

After I rescheduled a hair appointment, moved appointments with a urologist, pulmonologist, and primary care physician, and then scheduled new appointments with an ophthalmologist and dermatologist, it was time to cook. Actually, I was waiting on a confirmation call from Dr. Vito Rocco’s nurse. He’s the urologist. She, the nurse, called just as I was dusting the fish with a light coat of New Orleans Fish Fry.

There was more. My elder son called. He was at the peach orchard.

“Mom, did you get peaches from Pratt’s?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, and they were wonderful.”

“They’ve got two varieties today, the Rustin Reds and the Contenders. Isn’t that what they had when you came to the orchard? Now, those Contenders are the red ones, funny, because the Rustin Reds aren’t that red. Which one did you like best?”

“I think I like the Contenders the best.”

The talk turned to birthdays. Anjie (Jade’s wife) and I have August birthdays less than a week apart and we usually share a family celebration. I’ve reconciled with the monumental nature of my birthday this year. I’ll start Medicare August 1. Anjie will turn forty, so both of us have these big birthdays. What shall we do for the party? And when?

For lunch, it was tilapia with fresh tomato-caper sauce. Oh, yum. And leftovers from a hash brown casserole in the freezer. That turned out to be just okay, not that good. I baked the green squash with garlic and panko. Was it good? I liked it, but it wasn’t fabulous. Just not all that, although I did love the tilapia’s sauce.

We took it all to Mom and Dad’s apartment. They ate a few bites of each dish, Dad more than Mom, and both announced that they just could not eat any more. Except they did save room for a chocolate sundae each. Dave cleaned our kitchen and I headed outside. Joy, oh, joy!!!

It was the perfect gardening weather. I dumped all the weeds and came in the house at 7:00 P.M. I really wanted to go to the porch.

The blackberry vines are loaded. Dad planted them our first spring here in The Compound. He built a sturdy arbor for them to grow in, through, and on. They’ve thanked him more profusely every year since then.

Night before last, I played “cocktail hour sub.” Dave takes Dad his one-per-day bourbon and Diet Coke promptly at 5:00 o’clock each evening–or he sends someone else with it if he’s bound up somewhere. I took iced tea in my favorite Mason jar sippee-cup. Mom delighted Murphy with the usual half-dozen (or more) bacon skins.

“Dad says there’s enough blackberries down there for a pie,” she said.

“A small one,” Dad added.

“Okay, bring ’em on, I’ll make you a pie,” I told him.

So last night, while Dave and I watched the PBS American Experience documentary “Freedom Summer,” I washed and cleaned the berries, and warmed them up to melt the heavy sugar I’d added. Then I put the butter in the long glass pan and slid it in the oven while I mixed the batter.

The smell of hot blackberries is summer, or heaven, or both, and the aroma of the sweet fruit’s cobbler wafting through the room always takes me back to the last time I picked blackberries on the Smith County farm before we moved to California. That was before Freedom Summer, a few years before I ever went to school with a black classmate, and a long time before I thought seriously about the sad consequences of racism.

We started out to the first berry patch early in the morning. We had to get to the berries before the sun got hot. I remember there were several of us picking, but I can think of only one specifically. That was my Aunt Virginia.

In those days, berry-picking was the only time you’d ever see the women in pants. All of us sported outfits borrowed from one of the men in the family, Aunt Virginia included. I wore a long-sleeved work shirt and my grandfather’s overalls. Pa Blair was a small man; even the length of the legs was perfect for me. We doused our ankles, wrists, and necks with coal oil to ward off ticks and chiggers, and then tucked the pants legs into long socks. We buttoned the necks of our collars and complained that someone was choking us.

I dropped my berries–Don’t throw ’em, just lay ’em in there soft-like–into a lard pail tied to my waist with a chain of rag strips. The bucket’s edges were rusted, the brand barely showing on the outside. Who knows how long it had hung around? I carried a tobacco stick and beat the ground under the briars in case there were any snakes lying in wait, and then propped it against a thick section of a bush. I needed two hands to pick berries. When we moved to the next patch, I reached for my stick.

We always tried to finish up by 11:30. I can almost feel the sun on my back through that chambray shirt, the clear signal to head to the house.

I found Dad’s berries on the kitchen counter, in a plastic gallon milk jug with a large hole cut in the side and a length of twine tied to the handle.

Dad eased into the kitchen. “So, Sis, do you think I got enough for a pie?”

“A small one.” I looped the loose twine around the milk jug’s handle and tied it in a bow. “I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve seen a lard bucket.”

“I think I left two or three up at the farm,” he answered.

Let me tell you about my mom. She was seventeen when I was born–about to be eighteen that winter–and she already had my brother twenty-one months before. She was smart, so smart that she skipped a grade and graduated from eighth grade a year early.

Her parents were having all kinds of trouble. Her daddy wanted to preach–felt called–and her mother just couldn’t see it. She wanted him to continue farming, the life that she had always known, to be the man she’d married. Was she scared of being a preacher’s wife? Lord, I would have been. I’ve seen what that’s like…

In 1946, nobody divorced; well, it was rare. The papers were filed. Pa had a lawyer, but Granny Bessie didn’t. What would happen, would happen. A neighbor lady called my mom aside.

“Ethel,” she said, “your daddy and mama are going to split. He’s suing for custody. It’s just trouble a-brewing. I know you’ve been courting Toby Blair. If y’all have any idea at all that you’d marry someday, you need to go ahead and do it and get yourself out of this mess.”

“I want to marry him,” Mama told the neighbor lady.

“Well, I’ve already talked to Toby. Y’all get your plans together. We’ll help you ever’ way we can.”

They did, these neighbors. They helped to hire the taxi-cab to drive Mama, Daddy, and Granny Bessie to Ringgold, Georgia, on Halloween, where they were married by a Justice-of-the-Peace. My grandmother signed for my mother to marry. Mama was fourteen years old–about to be fifteen that winter.

Mothers come in all sort of forms. Every Mothers Day, florists and card-makers get rich on children trying to express their undying love for the one who grew life inside of her. Sometimes it’s just crazy, this outpouring of…well, CASH…to try to say something that just can’t be said.

If I were to offer a blessing this Mothers Day weekend, here’s what I’d say:

God bless my mama. She didn’t have a clue what she was in for, but she did it anyway. And then she started growing and never stopped. She’s eighty-two and she’s thrilled to learn something all the time. God bless my dad for encouraging her, for pushing her to conquer the world. She certainly conquered her world–and my world.

God bless your mama, and what she means to you. God bless her if she’s perfect. She’s not, but God bless her, anyway. God bless you for thinking she’s perfect.

God bless your mama if she’s gone. Some mamas leave you–and some leave this world. God bless you, in either of those two cases.

If your mama left you, God bless whatever caused her to fly–Just remember, there was some reason, so don’t go thinking your mama was a total mess. She might have been–but you don’t need to go there with the mess. You be you–with all your connection to the world around you. Be you. She might not ever be able to tell you, but she loves you for it. Love her for her struggle and her pain. Love her because, in loving her, you will love you.

If your mama went to Heaven, God bless her for her life that set her on that course. God bless all the people who helped her get there. God bless you as you try to be what your mama was. God bless you for being who you are. God bless you for being a motherless child. God bless you if you gather the strength to mother a motherless child….God bless you if you become a mother, yourself.

If you are a mama, God bless you. God bless you for realizing that you’ve been favored, and God bless you for realizing you’re really not all that special.

If you want to be a mama and it hasn’t happened yet, God bless you. God bless you for wondering if it will ever happen, and God bless you for not realizing that you’re already a mama, just for the longing.

If you’ve “been like a mama” to somebody, God bless you for what act of selflessness drew you to a child that wasn’t yours on the onset. That child is yours now…not to the exclusiveness of her own birth mama, but she’s yours somewhere deep inside you and her.

Whatever kind of mama you are, God bless you. Being a mama doesn’t come with an instruction manual. You do what you can. You learn from the ones who went before you–and sometimes you have to UNlearn what they told you. You learn from the book on raising children–and sometimes you ignore it. You try being the authority–and you shrink into uselessness. You try being their friend–and you fail on the first effort. You strive to be perfect–and you realize you don’t know what perfect is. You aim for being strict–and you hate yourself. You turn toward permissible–and you don’t know where permissible starts and “don’t care” takes up. You pray for your children–and wonder if anybody hears that prayer. You stop praying–and start again when you’re scared that your reluctance might doom them to Hell. You accept what it is you can do with whatever resources are available to you–and you often admit failure.

And then you take a look at those kids–yours, mine, somebody else’s–and you know they’re okay. They could be in diapers yet, or they may be mothering and fathering children of their own–or grandchildren. One of the bunch comes along and tells you, or sends you a card with roses on it, or lily-of-the-valley, or sparkles to say, “You’re wonderful.”

You are. You’re not perfect, but you’re a mom.

If you want to say something to your mama this Mothers Day, you could probably save some dollars by just showing up. Forget the cards. Forget the roses, the lily-of-the-valley, and the sparkles.

Just show up. Let her look at you. And ask her to tell you about becoming a mama.