Wanted

For the past 30 years or so, almost every late August or early September a gray cloud begins to form over and envelop my head. Just like the dusty cloud of dirt that followed the Charlie Brown character, Pigpen, it follows me everywhere. Mine is a cloud of melancholy.  And like Pigpen or a person who wears too much perfume, I've become completely acclimated to it. It is an accepted part of my life. And, my friends, I am talking about a sorrow that is palpable enough to physically weigh me down. So, each year, about this time, I self-medicate by taking St. John's Wort, then I exercise to the point of exhaustion, and I throw myself into some furniture refinishing project or such, all in the hopes of staving off my depression. To date I've been lucky that it’s always just been a seasonal melancholy. Long before the snow falls I've regained my usual disposition. 

Over the years, I've done a self-analyzation and decided that it began as a young mother. Or maybe even before that. I never relished the return of the school calendar and its ability to prioritize my life. I've always adored the sweet freedom from any schedule that long summer days permitted. My happiest days back then were when I could take the kids to the beach for the day and forget about any clock or timepiece. 

But, when the leaves turned and the school bells rang, I would know just as sure as Bob Dylan that "a change is gonna come." Soon would arrive the long, cold Chicago winters and with it an endless search for matching hats, gloves and boots. My self-analysis also tells me it probably has something to do with the reminder that life itself is a set of seasons that passes all too quickly...

"Brace yourself," I said to me-self this year. "Ahoy! Batten down the hatches. There's a storm abrewin' and she promises to be a big 'un."

But, this year, the cloud, she did not come. A bottle of St. John's Wort stands at the ready, but yet unopened.

***

Somewhere out there is a story of a "wanted child." No, not wanted, as is a "most wanted" poster, but as a child who was wished for, as all three of my children were wished for...

This takes me back to this summer, as I watched the historic anticipated birth of the royal British Prince George. I remember that, as soon as it was reported that Kate had gone to the hospital in labor, the television cameras, journalists, tourists and "royal watchers" descended upon the area in frenzied excitement.  

My husband and I had some kind of chore or appointment that took us out of the house for a time that morning. I remember that I flipped the television on the moment we walked back into the house that day. I couldn't wait to share in the joy that the birth of this new baby would bring.

I also remember that it occurred to me that we all ought to be celebrating each and every baby's birth in a similar style. For each baby is born with potential for distinction, with a birthright of untold possibility.

This is what I posted eight years back, before I "forever quit" Facebook: 

Our cameras flashed in a paparazzi-like fury, as his eyes blinked helplessly. To us he was better than any superstar. He was our 1st grandchild...

For my husband and I, news of an anticipated grandchild is shear joy. So, this Fall season, no cloud will form o'er my head. In fact, my pendulum has kinda swung in the opposite direction, and so maybe, I think, I can take that St. John's Wort back for a refund. For this Autumn I am so, so happy.

A Battle in My Backyard

Some years ago, my husband and I were discussing the purchase of a couple of trees and some shrubbery with our local landscaper and his son. The four of us stood around a table that sits near a door featuring a large glass panel. As we chatted, something caught the corner of my eye. I turned to look...

Hmm, must be my imagination, I think. Then I see it again. At first I mistake it for a large moth or butterfly. Wait, it's a hummingbird!

***

As summer wanes, the hummies become especially active. They do these amazing theatrical aerial dives and loops that make me think of the Top Gun pilots in their fighter jets. I wince as I think of the g-forces they must experience as they swoop, somersault, arc, change direction at dizzying speeds and even stop mid-air.

Peaceful Husband and I sit quietly on the deck and watch the battle scene, as they zoom so close sometimes we can actually hear the whoosh of air. Suddenly one halts and hovers just inches above my Peaceful Husband's head. Spectacular!

At times I'm certain there will be a collision, but over time I witness no contact, not with each other, nor with the bees and wasps with whom they compete for nectar. They are superior athletes capable of unparalleled flight performance. And I sure hope those in charge of flight biomechanics over at Roswell Air Force are studying their flight capabilities.

Occasionally the hummies dart in for quick sips of sugar water from our feeder. I imagine that I hear them say "ollie, ollie oxen free free free," as they retreat to nearby trees to rest, recover and plan for their next assault. Or, "No fair! I called 'time out!' "

As they take off again, they emit battle cries that consists of shrill chirps. To me it actually sounds as if they're saying, "cheater-cheater-cheater."

Which in turn, reminds me of the other battlefield just beyond our deck. Did I tell you that we reside directly on a golf course? Here also, I hear "cheater! cheater!" only these refrains come from the mouths of humans especially when there is a golf tournament.

A couple of weeks back was our course's annual "Mr. and Mrs. Club Championship." Bragging rights for the following year are yours, to be had if you and your spouse take this honor. And as with many a contest, sometimes there is conflict.

Family experts say that money issues, inattention, and lack of sex are the cause for most couple's battles. I'm not sure just where golf would appear on such list, but I'm guessing, perhaps it'd be there somewhere.

"Hon, no, not that way. It breaks to the left."

"What?!" (she straightens)

"Turn your club face."

"Are you sure? I think it'll go right."

"For crissake, why can't you listen?" (says he, when she misses the putt)

They get into the golf cart, and as they drive off, I can't quite hear his comment, but I do hear her shrill, "Are you happy? Are you happy now? You've ruined my day!"

Where is the love, I think. What happened to "cuz I'd catch a grenade for ya, throw my hand on a blade for ya..."

Because of the warped way my mind works, or perhaps as a result of watching too many episodes of "City Confidential, I wonder if I'll one day hear someone say about them, "I can't believe they're divorcing." Or even, "It's a sleepy community. You'd never expect something like that to happen here..."

Just then a hummingbird buzzes me and brings me back to the moment. She flares her body out, to warn another male hummie off.

I wonder if this hummie couple will be splitting up soon. Will they stop on their migration to South America for a quickie divorce in Mexico? Will they quarrel about visitation rights for the fledglings? 

“A successful marriage requires falling in love many times -- always with the same person.” ― Mignon McLaughlin

Work is a Reward

Labor Day, labor day, labor day... I promised myself that, with the fall season creeping up, I would once again begin, in earnest, to post something on my blog on a somewhat more regular basis than I have been doing this summer. What better day than Labor Day to dig in and get to work?

Labor Day is the United States’ annual tribute to celebrate the achievements of American workers. As a parent and grandparent I know well that these days it's a tough assignment to instill in children an appreciation of the value of physical work. Let’s face it, most children would rather do a fun thing, like play a digital game than take out the garbage or help clean the yard. But, I’m pretty sure that for the most part success in life is due to one’s willingness to work.

I’m not certain why, but when I sat down to think about Labor Day I thought of the famed poster of Rosie the Riveter, poised with her sleeves rolled up and flexing her bicep and the words “We Can Do It!” in a cartoon bubble above her head.

And Rosie in turn reminded me of someone I saw recently on television, her name is Lisa King. Ms. King is the mother of 10, yes, I said 10, count ‘em 10, children and I guess that in itself would be, as they say, “a labor of love.” Oh, and the youngest of her children, Ben, has down’s syndrome

Ms. King is a seemingly tireless, unflagging, indefatigable soul. There is an sweet effervescence about her. I get this sense that she will bubble over at any moment with a laugh or a joke and she does not disappoint me.

Due to a divorce from the children’s father, she’s a single mom now. Her children’s ages range from 29 years to 8 years, there are nine boys and one girl. She and her children grew up on a farm, so after the divorce the three oldest sons pooled their money to buy 150 acres of farmland, which they call, “Freedom Farms.”

The entire family is involved in the farm operations and the labor-intensive work that it entails. I don’t really know, but I’m guessing it might be difficult to support a family of 11+ on 150 acres alone, so they also run a bakery, cafe and storefront. They also sell their produce at local farmers markets.

The oldest son, Joe, with a college degree in engineering or something, is the official head of the business, but mom, Lisa, remains the head of the family and the children’s respect for their mother is evident.

Each family member contributes, and they all work hard, but Lisa’s efforts are particularly amazing to me. Her days begin at 4 a.m. with her baking of pies for the bakery. She can turn out 30 per hour, they say. She also harvests flowers they grow on their acreage and creates floral arrangements to be sold at the storefront. She also oversees and partakes in the preparation of the seasonal food produced for the cafe. All of her toil is done with humor and wit.

She has taught her children well. Their work ethic is inspirational, sort of an “all hands on deck,” “keep going until it’s done, and whatever you do, give it your best effort” - kind of endeavor.

Each family member is “in charge” of something. Each has a main job, and thus others working with them must follow that person’s dictum. But, whatever the task, everyone does everything. If it’s weed-pulling time, anyone not working on something else will pull weeds. If it’s produce-picking time, if it’s fence-mending time... The whole family working together, 7 days a week, and don't think they excuse Ben from his share of the labor, because they do not.

Now here’s the kicker: Lisa’s children are physically beautiful, like movie star perfect, physical specimens, each one cuter than the one before. She must be told this often, because she’s been quoted as saying, “I like to think that their beauty comes from within, too.” In fact, the reason the King family was “discovered” was because her four oldest sons posed for some farming magazine with their shirts off and as they say, “the rest is history.”

Now I’ve said this before and I’m saying it again:  I get that so called “reality tv” is as scripted and contrived, and thus as carefully edited as any sitcom or drama. I truly get that.

But, that being said, this is my type of reality television. It’s good, it’s wholesome and it renews my faith in my fellow humans, especially when nutty stuff is going on like the chemical warfare in Syria.

So, if you want to see a good show about a good looking, hard working family who don’t seem to mind laboring from sunrise to sunset, check out the King family on the GAC channel. I'm pretty sure you'll like the show. (By the way, GAC stands for Great American Country, which mostly features Country and Western music and stuff.)

Ms. King said that she once watched the show and it brought tears to her eyes. I hear you, sister, it brings tears to my eyes, too.

Lisa King - My Labor Day Hero

"Without labor, nothing prospers."  -  Sophocles