All These Days

 It has been a month since I last posted here. No surprise why. We have been consumed by clearing out my father's house in order to get it on the market by October 1. We will hit that deadline with several days to spare, but it has taken a toll on all of us—my brother Michel, his wife Kate, their son Timon, their grandson Arlo, Warren, Warren's son David, and myself. We have all pitched in to the last full measure, but the job has taken huge bites out of our respective schedules, other obligations, and health (in some cases). And it is not as if the rest of the world stopped spinning to accommodate the clearing out of Stuff. 

A few more items from Dad's house came home with me. A green sweatshirt (pullover, no hood). An eight-pointed serving bowl that graced our supper table for years. A few tools. One of dad's paintings. But not much else. 

This bowl dates back to the "Made in Japan" era

I have kinda sorta managed to keep up somewhat with the kitchen garden as I am having a boon tomato year. There is more pesto to make. The cosmos and the agastache are full of bees and butterflies and sometimes I remind myself to stop and watch them. 

Bee in the agastache

I have poked books and writing letters into spare moments, most often in the evening. For the first time in forever, I have nodded off more than once while reading. And at least one letter bore marks of exhaustion: writing my address instead of Tani's on the envelope, being off on the date by a month (when did September get here?). The High Holy Days are approaching and I have not given much thought to them and their importance.

Indeed, these days are full. All these days. I do not regret or resent the time spent on Dad's homestead, but we are all ready for it to be done. 

And it almost is. 

Revelations

Yes, my work. 

There is the garden project to write about (what changes!). There is the 2nd quarter/1st half grocery expenditures to report on (let's just say there are some surprises there). My father had a medical matter arise that has landed him in skilled nursing rehab for the indefinite future (the same one I spent several weeks in last fall, so it is like Old Home Week for me when I go visit).  There is Warren's impending retirement as Executive Director of our local symphony after 3+ decades (he will continue to play, and he has other significant commitments, so don't worry about him not having anything to do). And it is 4th of July week, which means this household is on buzz level (on the 4th itself, Warren and I will put in 18+ hours from waking up to finally going to bed, most likely on the 5th). In short, our hands are full, our calendars are packed, and our time is on short supply.

Despite all of that, I no longer feel as I am running on overload, a word I have used constantly for weeks now. A word I have used so much for the last month that I have often thought of the old Groucho Marx show, "You Bet Your Life," with the classic "Say the secret word," which would cause the duck to drop down with a prize for the contestant. 

That duck was dropping down daily, even hourly. No prize, mind you, but the damn duck kept dropping. 

So what happened? 

Two things.

One happened early in June, when we had our June Justice Bus, a collaboration between our county Law Library, Andrews House (which has hosted legal clinics since October 2003), and the Ohio Access to Justice Foundation. We come together once a month in town for a clinic focused solely on family law. I am the attorney wrangler, but in June I filled in for one of our attorneys who had a last-minute court matter. I met with the clients, we fully explored the issue that brought them there, and they left with gratitude for the directions we had discussed.

I walked home that day deep in thought, resolving to step back into serving our Justice Bus, not just as attorney wrangler but also as a volunteer attorney. I have to finish my Continuing Legal Education for this biennial (yeah, yeah), but I am back in.

Warren smiled and nodded when I told him my decision later that day. He made it clear that he supported me fully. Then he said he was not surprised; he knew where my heart was.

The second revelation caught me totally off guard, albeit in a great way. And it involves my long love, albeit dormant, of photography. 

I have been taking photos with my old  iPhone (a model X, to give you an idea just how old—new to me, but old). It does okay. It captures moments. 

But the bees are back. I sat on the porch and watched them. I knew I wanted something better than my iPhone. So I went back inside and picked up my Canon.

When I shattered my wrist in January, I could not use my Canon. And, to be truthful, I had not been using it much even before the medical mess of the autumn, let alone the wrist. But with my arm in a cast, I could not easily handle the Canon. When the cast came off in early March, I had significant neuropathy in my right thumb and index finger. That improved with exercise, but then another medical problem on the same arm (and the same nerve) set me back and made clear that I will always have neuropathy. Better, mind you, but likely permanent. So I skirted the Canon, not sure what my right hand could do. 

And the iPhone was so convenient. But it could not begin to give me what I wanted. And my Canon could. 

And did.

I texted my lifelong friend Cindy what I had just done, adding "So excited!" Then added "And it feels so great!"

What I realized and shared with Cindy was that this was the reconnection to photography that I had been hoping for, but was not sure I would ever get back, not just in my hands but in my heart and emotions. I knew Cindy would understand as she and I, besides being lifelong friends, also grew up in 4-H photography together.

Of course, Cindy got it immediately. We are that close, that connected. 

And she totally understood when I texted: "I don't want to lose that feeling ever again."

Truly, I felt like a missing part of me—not just since winter, but long before then—was back. 

Every night I sit out on our back deck as dusk comes on and watch the fireflies come out. It is my retreat; it is my time of quiet contemplation. I am writing this in longhand as I sit here. It is chill tonight, so much so that I am in sweats and a hoodie. The fireflies are blinking off and on, sometimes rising in seemingly choreographed waves.  

As I watch them, I reflect on my finding my way back to advising. I think of my finding my way back to photography. I think of Warren and his support and love, and of Cindy and her support and love.

And I savor the little lights flashing in the deepening dusk.

Which Was the Bigger Event?

Today there was a total solar eclipse across a swath of the United States. Where we live (Delaware, Ohio) was in the path of totality. Warren and I were invited to a viewing gathering next door and spent a wonderful few hours chatting, laughing, and watching the sun slowly disappear and then reappear. 

So as to not arrive empty-handed, I made two types of cookies to take: a cinnamon sugar cookie and a double chocolate cookie. Earlier in the day, I took some to our neighbors on the other side. In thanking me, Adam (the father of Margaux of the wonderful birthday tower) texted that he was "assuming that this is the correct way to eat them for the total eclipse effect:"

Eclipse preview

Yes, indeed! 

Seven years ago, there was a partial solar eclipse in our area, but this was the first full solar eclipse any of us (there were seven of us total) had ever seen. We were all wonderstruck.  All of us just kept marveling at what was taking place over our heads. We kept commenting on the changes in the light and the air temperature. 

And truly, there are not enough words to describe the event.

Solar corona at totality; if you were looking through eclipse glasses, you would see the sun totally blackened with a shining ring of light around it. My phone? Not so much! 

So yes, that was a BIG event today! 

But there was another BIG event earlier today. Midmorning, after thinning out the dead flowers from a birthday bouquet, I walked the discards out to the compost container back by the Hej garden. That garden currently is covered in purple deadnettle, one of the first flowering anything to come up in the spring. I had seen the garden last week and knew that it was carpeted in the small flowering plants. All the same, I stopped in my tracks. 

What stopped me?

BEES!!! 

Several bumblebees were zigzagging through the deadnettle. I only had my phone on me, but all the same managed to capture one of them in action:

The bumbler clearly ignoring me

 I went back to the house and grabbed my camera. Now, I have not really used my camera since shattering my wrist in January. I tried a few times, but pretty much lacked the physical capability to hold it as well as enough sensation in my index finger to trip the shutter. But I have been doing my exercises faithfully for week and while I am not 100% yet, I am much better. Better enough that I could get some shots off.

In the brief time it took to walk to the house, get my camera, then walk back out to the Hej garden, the bumblebees had moved on. But happily for me, the honeybees had moved in behind them and were busy mining the pollen:

The first honeybees of 2024

Bees, bees, bees! These are the first I have seen in 2024 and that, for me, is also a BIG event! 

I love that on a day of a once-in-a-lifetime sky event, my morning started with my finding a whole bed of bees, already starting their 2024 rounds. And maybe there aren't enough words to describe that event either.

The bigger event? They were both BIG. 

This Year's Gardens: Part 9

Finally.

Finally there are tomatoes. Not many, mind you, but for the first time all season, I picked more than two or three:

These are the outliers, but I am grateful they are here.

The large green-red tomato is a Cherokee Carbon Heritage tomato. It turns reddish-purple, supposedly, but it seems to be ripe enough to eat at this stage:

From the bottom, it is red, but not a bright red:

Interesting about the purple, given the name "Cherokee." I have not read to see if the tomato is a heritage from the tribe. But I know the Trail of Tears beans are. The pods of those turn purple when they are ready to pick and eat. I picked this handful the other day to see how "purple" they had to be to eat:

The answer? Pretty purple. The kinda sorta purple ones in the picture are not ready to eat. When totally purple, the bean inside is indeed black. And delicious. And beautiful:

I am about to call the zucchini patch a total loss. I would like to say it is my fault. I have been pretty lackadaisical about tending it and the weeds are rampant. My lack of care has no doubt contributed to the situation. But I find plant after plant dying, shriveling and decaying to nothing. A few have grown into large, healthy plants. But even the healthiest ones seem incapable of having their blooms set. When I take a closer look, I see very tiny insects swarming the plants. They are not ants, they are not winged, but they are everywhere. 

I wonder if they are also the reason that the cabbages and cauliflower in the same garden are chewed with little tiny holes and producing nothing. Nothing. In fact, the only planting in the Hej garden that not only seems healthy but is likely to come to harvest is my second patch of Trail of Tears beans. Thinking of how that bean made it from the 1830s to now, I am not terribly surprised that it is thriving. Its survival capacity is huge.

The flowers are thriving, so there are spots of color and bees everywhere. 

In the coneflowers:

And on the Agastache, which loves its new bed:

Bees are also in the cosmos, which are blooming in colorful bursts, but I have not been hunting them for their closeup shot there. I have been watching instead for a hummingbird, new to our combined backyards this year. I have seen it darting in and out of the cosmos, clearly drawn by the colors, and lingering around the lilies in the back, some of which are deep red.

A hummingbird! A wonder on wings! 

Cosmos without bees or bird

I am pretty much resigned to the reality that we will have to buy zucchini this year to stock our freezer. I might be surprised, but I don't think so. I still have seeds and could always try seeding a new patch, but...we'll see. As I adapt to my own lowering levels of capacity and what I could and could not do this year in the gardens, I know there will be changes next year. 

But there will be tomatoes. And basil. And bees. This year and next.