trying

My seeds are needy. And I guess like any parent of dependent plant life, I’m wondering how I let this happen, and trying to figure out a way to wean them from the comfort of the great indoors.

The reality is this is my fault. Starts do come with instructions. Sure, a happy outcome is never guaranteed, but I thought I had a handle on things: Sow them inside until the soil warms, schedule a few play dates in the sun, then off they go to make their way in the ground. But apparently there is more to it than that.

One evening last week D was reading at the kitchen table and I lifted his magazine so it didn’t crush a delicate green tendril curling his way. He didn’t even look up. To my left half a dozen cucumber plants appeared to be creeping across the counter in search of new space. The time had come.

A few days later it was in the mid-seventies and sunny—perfect—I thought —for taking the cucumber starts outside for the first time and begin preparing them for life outdoors. As I placed them on top of their garden bed I imagined they would stretch towards the sun and bask in the light. Besides, they can’t live in the kitchen forever.

An hour later, I checked on the plants to find some of their leaves shriveled and vines wilted. It turns out I was cooking them in their clay pots. I moved them into the shade and doused them with water, thinking they were being more than a little wussy. I knelt down and flattened a sun-crisped leaf between my fingers. It was completely singed. I apologized. I’m sorry little guy, we will try again tomorrow. I gathered the starts and put them back inside.

I consulted more experienced gardeners at work who told me my mistake: one needs to transition them slowly from their cushy tabletop lifestyle to the rugged outdoors where temperatures fluctuate, direct sun prevails, and bugs thrive. I have been babying my plants and they have adapted.

And just because I nurtured them into being from day one, I can’t expect them to start producing pickles at my command. They, too, need time to adjust to change. They, too, need time to mature. They just happen to do it much faster than us humans. And we forget that they can get sunburned as well.

It kind of makes me wonder who’s really in charge here. I need the plants in my garden to survive. I need them to become nourishing salads, fresh fried hash browns, and strawberry jam. I need them to help me live; they don’t. All they require is a little sunshine and water and a bee to brush up against them once in a while.

I’m learning that plants grown from seed outdoors are hardier than those grown with human supervision inside. They simply adapt to harsh conditions. Or they don’t. The indoor plants grow accustomed to their needy parents who must have sustained warmth and regular meals or they get cranky. They, meaning, she. (And she being me.)

Yesterday, after a second day of burning up even more of my starts—shade moves!— I got angry. Looking at their scorched leaves, some actually white from the heat, I exploded. What is wrong with you, I bellowed? This is life. Get used to it.

Then I felt bad. First because I was yelling at my plants. Then because I was yelling at my plants I expect so much from. I mean, they are doing the bulk of heavy lifting, converting the sun into food and all. I just show up with my watering can and act put out because it takes an extra ten minutes in the morning.

It’s probably a good thing my plants can’t talk to me. I sit in a climate controlled office all day – never getting too hot or too cold, where water flows freely and bugs only occasionally find their way through the heating vents. If something or someone is bothering me I just get up and walk away. And afterwards, I go home, mix a fantastic martini, and watch episodes of Stephen Colbert with my feet up. My life is hard.

As I took the plants out of the garage this morning and settled them in the backyard I examined their charred leaves. Some are barely holding on, some look like they are bouncing back from the trauma of change. Either way the plants are trying.

coax into being

Two weeks ago I sent my grampa a package containing seeds: two types of tomatoes, a few kernels of corn, and an envelope for growing cucumbers. I thought he might enjoy taking care of something again.

Growing up, when we visited my grandparents’ house we inevitably did three things: explore the basement, walk to the beach, and poke around the backyard. Their basement had the best smell—a mixture of laundry, old tools, and darkness. Matty would rifle through grampa’s workspace, lifting old mayonnaise jars filled with nails, bolts, and washers; picking up hammers too big to swing. Grampa was the expert of heavy things. A career machinist, he engineered clever fixes to broken locks and creaky doors. He had a solution for any problem.

Their house was one block from the beach. It is where my mom learned to swim and my nana would paddle across the channel and back. In 30 years, I have never seen anyone else attempt it. The shipyard where grampa worked was a few blocks further and the site that produced many of the boats that served in WWII. His name is still etched in one of the bells. The beach smelled of the soap factory down the channel. It was where I collected seashells and talked about boys with my sister.

My grandparents’ backyard is small. There is just enough room for a long table and a half dozen folding chairs. Wild roses grow along the fence. Grampa used to grow tomatoes along the strip of grass separating the neighbor’s yard. Big red tomatoes used for sauce. He was always really proud of those tomatoes. I don’t really remember when he stopped growing them. But it’s been years.

This is my second season as a gardener. All south-facing windowsills in my house are currently occupied by tomato, pepper or cucumber starts. It will be several more weeks before it’s safe to put them outside. I’m wondering if staking the cucumbers inside is a bit much. I still have envelopes of seeds with no purpose in the garage.

Every Sunday I call my grampa. On a good day we chat for at least eight minutes. On a bad day it’s anything less. The day I made the seed package we had spoken for just six. It was the first time he had to ask who he was talking to. In the note, I explained how deep and how far apart to space the plants. I ended the note with the most important detail—don’t forget to water them. Don’t forget. That is my hope.

These days, grampa no longer makes anything in the basement. He gave away many of his tools. It’s a fact that sometimes is forgotten. I can’t recall the last time he walked to the beach. Or even to the end of the street. He doesn’t really watch the Red Sox anymore. Lately he likes to stare out the window and watch the birds. Part of me wishes I could follow his thoughts. I wonder where they fly off to.

Last weekend I was back home for my sister’s baby shower. Grampa helped make necklaces of paper clips and string for a game. Dozens of people came, ate, watched Jen open gifts, and left. After the guests dispersed, I sat next to grampa in the breakfast nook. He lifted one of the necklaces and frowned.

“You made that,” I said.

He didn’t remember. I am hoping his garden will be different. It arrived the other day. (He didn’t remember that either.) But I am hoping having a garden again will allow him to track change—and progress—over time. I am hoping the seeds might be a good daily project for him. That if he sees the starts sitting out on his kitchen table they will remind him to participate in this life. That they will eventually compel him to go out into the backyard and try to coax into being.

my friend Jack

My neighbor Jack is 90. Every morning he is up earlier than me. Out walking. Out puttering in the backyard. Out being productive. Every evening his garage is still open hours after mine has closed. He might be in the garden re-rigging his drip system. Or in the front, trimming the edges of a lawn I’m not entirely sure he can see.

My favorite it is coming home from work to hear him blasting music and nowhere to be found. It’s usually old timey stuff like Frank Sinatra. His wife apologizes for the volume. He’s hard of hearing, she says. I don’t care, I tell her. It makes me happy.

Last fall Jack planted two saplings. At the time, I thought it was odd to put them in the ground right before the frost came. But he’s been at this whole gardening thing a lot longer than me. The trees are in full bloom right now. The other night D mentioned how great it was that Jack planted them even though he will probably never witness them in their prime. I hate thinking that. Even if it’s true.

Jack is my pal I talk to across the fence. We trade stories about the happenings in our gardens. He tells me he is my back up water man if I ever need one. He advises me on pest management. He has offered to help prune my apple tree. Just let him know, he will bring the shears. Jack tells me he enjoys seeing life in our planter beds. I don’t think the previous renters gardened. When we arrived the beds were a mess of rotting gourds and sun-dried soil. I think all that wasted opportunity bothered him.

Last year I got a late start on planting. My corn and tomatoes were a weak harvest at best. One evening I boiled a dozen baby ears of corn, slathered them in butter, and pretended they didn’t taste a little bitter. To avoid a similar scenario, I planted early this spring. All three beds are filled with spinach, chard, arugula, carrots, onions, kohlrabi and potatoes in various stages. Inside we have cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers occupying all southern windows and benches. Until recently, I was eager to show Jack my progress.

I held off after he confessed he was growing weary. He admitted he felt tired and that the garden is a lot of work. I tried to laugh it off and tell him he will play the role of director this year instead. Still, it upset me when I saw his sons and granddaughters out pruning his apple tree a few weeks later.

It made me think about how strange it must be for him to watch me come home from work, pull on my gardening gloves and head out back to mess around for a few hours. His backyard operation is slow and steady. Mine is erected using short bursts of hard labor. While he is precise with his plantings, I plant more than I need and still manage to come up short. For instance, Jack is still eating carrots he planted last year. A little hay helped them winter underground. Meanwhile in March, I turned over three rows of rotting carrots I never pulled before the freeze.

You would think that gardening would better prepare me for changes in the cycle of life. That nurturing something from seed to fruit to compost would allow me to accept that people eventually slow down too. It hasn’t. I keep wondering if maybe there is a way I can improve the soil. I wonder if Jack feels similarly.

Months ago he bought an adult tricycle at a yard sale, thinking he would repair it and cruise around town like he used to. But it hasn’t moved from his back patio. Over the weekend D swiped it and gave it a complete overhaul. I came back from a run to find Jack in our driveway watching D make the final repairs. “I can’t find the words to describe how I feel,” he said. He couldn’t stop saying thank you.

A few hours later D told me he watched Jack take his first ride from the front window. He struggled to turn the pedals. The one gear was just too hard to turn. Jack got off and pushed it down the street until D couldn’t see him anymore.

finding the line

In college I started lifting for the first time in my life. My track coach introduced the concept to us long distance runners. Pull-ups. They were good for us. Do them. Then, do more.

Of course there was more to it than that. Hand weights. Squats. Crunches on medicine balls. But pull-ups were the hardest. It was just a metal bar and you trying to throw your chin over it. No cheating. No bad form. Just core strength. And a touch of badass.

The last time I could recall doing pull-ups I was middle school. And I was actually pretty good back then—for a girl without any breasts or hips and an extra 40 pounds. Plus the football team wasn’t working out next to me.

In the beginning my teammates and I had to help each other complete just one pull-up. Two hands on a back more or less hurling each other over the bar. Our coach told us to work the negative. Meaning, control your descent, don’t just drop. Because coming down makes you stronger too.

Gradually we needed less pressure. Eventually just the hint of a touch on your skin was enough to force quaking arms to obey. Then one day we were doing them by ourselves. That was a good feeling. Being able to pull yourself up and out of your lowest point is a beautiful thing to accomplish.

After I graduated I only lifted sporadically. With teammates I lived with. Then boyfriends. Then no one. I miss those days.

So I recently started climbing. It’s similar to lifting. But better. You get to use your feet. And your brain. You have to find your line. You have to figure out how to defy gravity using a few holds on a wall. At its best, it is a vertical ballet. At worst, you hulk, burn up, and fall off the wall.

My introduction to the sport was during a weekend trip to Boulder to visit one of D’s friends. We rented me a harness, some shoes, and drove in search of some rocks to ascend. That trip I found myself clinging to a mountain while trying to free my rope from the teeth of rocks pinning me to its side. There was no way down but by going up first. By that point I was tired. I was scared. And no one was coming up after me. So I held on, forced myself to breathe, and freed myself from my own tangled mess. I was sold.

For the past six months I started going with some girl friends to a local gym. I started the same way I started lifting — nervous about my own incompetence, and weak. At least in the muscles groups required to grip oddly shaped holds and balance for extended periods on tiptoes and fingertips.

But I am getting stronger. My forearms no longer burn within the first few ascents up the wall. And if they do, I can now push through them. I like to think I am becoming more graceful too. When I put on my climbing shoes it brings back memories of the brief years I danced en pointe. My ballets shoes were stiff, tight, and perfect for making precision movements. I kept them long after I stopped dancing because they were beautiful. And reminded me that I used to be able to do something hard.

When I started climbing I did a lot of hulking, burning up, and falling off the wall. I said a lot of can’ts. I can’t start this. I can’t figure out how to get to the next hold. I can’t do that. I’m not strong enough. Not tall enough. That route is impossible. Then one night one my climbing partners called me out. “Stop saying ‘I can’t.’ You can.”

It’s good to get slapped in the face every once in a while. Every time I catch myself repeating that phrase, I force myself back to the start. I reassess my route. I say that it is hard. And then I look for someone better than me to show me how it’s done.

That may be my favorite part about climbing. You get to see how people problem-solve in real-time. Often they have an entirely different approach. Simply watching someone else begin a climb facing another direction can be the most enlightening experience. I’ve learned that I often need to change my mindset. That I’m often making something harder than it needs to be. That the next hold is never as far as I think.

I’ve also learned that some people are just good at reading a wall and understanding how their body will move along it. Other people act first, think later. (I am one of those other peoples.) For these folks, it helps to have a strong core. Because your movements aren’t as clean and you spend the time you could have spent planning your path, holding onto the wall, burning out. Chickening out of your next move.

But I am working on all that. And I think it is helping. For instance, last night I had a small breakthrough and climbed into a new difficulty category. Part of is simple. I am climbing more; therefore I am getting stronger and able to complete more complex routes. Part of it is mental. I am climbing more and becoming less afraid of falling off the wall.

Lately I have stopped using the numbering system to explore new routes to climb. Instead of looking for paths I should theoretically be able to complete, I am attempting lines that look fun. That’s how I found my breakthrough climb.

I discovered it last week and got within one notch of the top of the wall, but could never bring myself to reach for it. My arms were a little too tired and I was a little too scared to let go of my hold. But last night I located the climb and stepped back. This time I was finally able to see my line. And this time I was strong enough to follow it.

the people i meet

I regularly interact with random and strange and wonderful people because of my job.  Every now and then I meet someone I can’t shake the memory of. Sometimes it is because they say terrible things. Like the man I recently met who said the Holocaust never happened. He could prove it to me, but I won’t believe him. Because people who don’t understand science don’t believe him.

He looks at my notebook smiling. He wants me to write down his words.  Every single filthy one. So I put my pen down and look for the door. Lift an eyebrow and search for words that won’t get me fired. Then I leave. However, most of the time I don’t meet people like that. Most of the time I meet people who say something that rings true in my bones. Something that comforts some part of me that apparently needed comforting.

For instance, last week I interviewed a woman who made the decision to finish her degree at the age of 98. She said she was used to reading a lot. She has done it every day since her husband died 15 years ago. She reads whatever paperback books friends and neighbors bring to her door. She has no preference. She was on bed rest once for six years so she re-read the Bible – all but the last chapter. The Quran too. And the book the men in yellow robes read.

She told me her life story while perched on a piano bench.  It took three hours. She jumped decades at a time and back and I was supposed to keep up in between. She told me the full name and birthday of anyone she mentioned. Sometimes their children’s full names, who they married, and whether or not they had any children.

She described growing up on a farm in southern Utah. How she was in charge of separating the cheese curd. She shared the story of how she met her husband.  At work. He was in her office. She told him to get the hell out of it.

For their first date they went to the one diner in town and to the picture show. The next night on their second date they went to the picture show and to the one diner in town. He asked her then if he could see her ankles.

“All of my relatives have cow ankles,” he explained.

She didn’t.  They were engaged within the week and stayed married for more than 60 years before he died. She no longer wears a wedding band. She no longer really leaves the house. When I asked why she wanted to go back to school she turned on the bench and looked me in the eyes as if searching for some sign of intelligence.

“To learn,” she said.

A few days later I interviewed a young mother of two who dreams of becoming a doctor. She moved to the United States from South America and has spent the past decade learning English, taking prerequisite courses, and working to support her family. She is applying to medical school this summer.

“I don’t care how long it takes me,” she said. “I will go.”

She wants to be a good role model for her kids. She described how her four-year old walks around the house carrying textbooks half her size saying she is doing homework like mommy.

“How can I tell my kids to go after their dreams if they can come back at me and say, well then why didn’t you go to medical school mom?” she said.

I smiled into my notes as she went on.

“I might not get in,” she said. “And it will break my heart. Then I will be ok. Because it will make me stronger. And then I will apply again.”

She told me that she didn’t always have the confidence to go after her dreams. But somehow she found it. She walked into the right classroom and found a teacher who pushed her into another. And another. It’s taken her about a decade more to start going after it.

“I used to not know what I was going to do with my life,” she said. “I think we all have that sometimes. But sometimes we are lucky and find someone who can walk us through it.”

Afterward I shook her hand and wished her all the best. I said it was really nice meeting her.  And it was.

growing avacados

My big sister is pregnant. She is about four and a half months along and starting to show. I know this because my mom sends me weekly pictures of her bump. And it is definitely a mini ski slope now.

When I was home for Christmas I already knew she was pregnant. She had told me over the phone, and I admit I was disappointed I couldn’t actually tell when I saw her. But apparently these things take time.

She showed me pictures from the first sonogram. The scroll contained three images. The first resembled a Rorschach test. All strangely shaped blotches of light and dark. I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking at. The second picture I identified a gerbil. The third showed the gerbil without it’s head attached. I didn’t want to be the first person to tell her she was going to be delivering a broken rodent so I just smiled. She was waiting for a response.

“It’s a gerbil,” I pronounced.
Two gerbils, she said.

That’s when I learned I have no future as an ultrasound technician.

“How big are they?”
The size of green olives, she said.

I couldn’t help but look at her abdomen and think about a martini. In the past two months they have grown from olives to prunes to apricots. I am told they are now the size of small avocados. Every time I shop for groceries I visit the produce section and wonder how big the twins are.

Maybe that sounds strange. But I haven’t really grown up with babies in my family. The last new blood in our clan came about 13 years ago. It is now adult sized and I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t. None of my close friends have had babies. And anytime someone from my work came back from maternity leave to show off their infant, I was the one person in the corner who didn’t want to hold it. I didn’t really know how.

At this point, all I can do is relate my sister’s pregnancy to items I grow in my backyard. I understand their weight. I have context for their size against my palm. And I understand the importance of patience and timing – you never want to pick the fruit too soon.

Still. I feel like I am 10 and traveling to my grandparents’ house in Quincy, crawling along Route 93 in bumper to bumper traffic, and continuing to ask, ‘Are we there yet?’ No? Well, how much further? Two minutes later. How much further now?’

It’s only gotten worse since we discovered that she is having twin boys. Apparently yesterday they were running laps in her womb during the ultrasound session. She has to go back so more accurate readings can be taken when they are quieter. I pictured the twins slapping each other high-five afterward. Then I wondered if they even had hands yet.

I went online and learned that they do have hands. Fingers too. And how over the next few weeks they will begin to hear. A few weeks later Jen will be able to hear them—or at least, hear their heartbeats with a stethoscope.

It’s hard not to be excited about meeting the twins. However, I do not want to spend the next four and a half months wishing them away. I want to appreciate them.

So this weekend I will draw a diagram of my garden. I will buy seeds. I will plant some starts. Even though there is still snow on the ground. Even though it’s forecasted for tomorrow, and for several days next week. Even though nothing is green or even contemplating growing. Because eventually all that will change.

Already temperatures are slowly creeping past freezing. Sometimes winter retreats into the hills and spring doesn’t feel so far away. Almost as if it’s right around the bend, poking through all the dark spaces. And then it snows. Usually just a dusting. But enough to say, don’t get too far ahead of yourself—there’s plenty of season left in you yet. And deep down I know that harvest time will come soon enough.

the engineering of a wish

Last night I attended my first Chinese New Year party. From what I understand, the holiday celebrates how the Chinese defeated an ancient mythical creature that preyed upon children and villagers by exposing it to its fears. Namely, the color red and noise.

The festival is a time of cleansing one’s home, paying one’s debts, and preparing for the future. I’m told Chinese New Year celebrates change and moving beyond old grievances and bad fortune.

Our hosts provided a sumptuous feast, dirty Confucius jokes, tasty ginger booze, and the opportunity to propel our dreams into the year ahead. While I am pretty sure this is not actually a tradition associated with Chinese New Year, I like it just the same.

We started by writing whatever it was we wanted to let go of onto sheets of paper. It was an opportunity to ask for forgiveness and to be forgiven – to acknowledge the things we regret, the things we have no control of, and the things that made us hurt. The idea was to leave bad energy in the past. I wrote down three. Then we gathered on the back porch and tossed them into a fire.

Later, we wrote out our wishes for the future. We crushed them into balls then unfurled the paper into wrinkled cylinders. We lit matches and touched the flames to the edges watching the fire consume our dreams. The final throws of heat rocketed the ashes into the air. They floated down in pieces we caught in our palms. At least that was the idea.

To be honest, I am not sure whom we were addressing to help shepherd our wishes into the year ahead. Ourselves? God? Perhaps that seems like the easy thing to do.  Send your deepest desires via the great mailman in the sky and blame him if they get lost along the way. But then again, maybe the exercise is more about just asking for the courage to even try.

Personally, I think that is how great ideas are engineered.  Imagine, plan, execute, and hope. Sometimes I think we forget the last part.

The exercise reminded me of a conversation I had with a girlfriend the day before. She has spent the past year and a half positioning her finances and building contacts so that she can leave behind the security of a full-time job in the financial sector to launch a singing career.

“I may be entering that scary phase of getting what I ask for,” she said. “I feel like my whole life just opened up.”

I kept thinking of her as we took turns lighting our paper wishes. Discussion arose about whether it is harder to ask for our desires or easier to let go of our mistakes. People seemed divided. Some thought it was hardest to actually realize what it is we truly want. I don’t know about that.

I do know this. Most of the time our paper cylinders didn’t take to the air like they were supposed to. Most of the time they burned straight to the ground, leaving behind a mess of ashes on the tabletop and disappointment. I think the hardest part is reaching for a pencil and another sheet of paper and acknowledging what we still haven’t accomplished yet. And deciding, maybe this is the year I will.