Like children, maybe better

My sister-in-law and my niece hold horticultural certificates in flower gardening. They recognize probably any flower or weed in the universe. As we all know, I only remember the names of the ones I really like.

When this little pot full came to live here in April, I remembered only it was a daisy, so I called it the step daisy. Its lovely orange flowers eventually had to be dead-headed, but the leaves were quite lovely and I left it on the step.

Then it did this. I mentioned the step daisy intended to have more flowers and the universe shouted back Gerbera Daisy!

I think I have it now.

The bong under the steps

This is for Jocelyn.

Of all the stories I knew I’d never tell, this is the only one you’ll hear.

I came of age in the sixties, when, as Dylan mentioned, the times they were a changing.  Actually, the pieces always were there. My dad said when he was young and free in the 1930’s, marijuana grew wild along the railroad tracks and the hobos didn't want for a smoke. It took a bunch of decent kids and a bad war to make a trend a movement.

I learned how to drink in college, then how to smoke, and quickly how to do both in moderation. Hash left my repertoire when a friend’s bathroom toilet was a mile or more down the little black and white tile path, and I had to stand on my tippy toes to reach the water closet chain up on the wall.

Pot was not the same after that, either, and I generally passed. I had my alcohol epiphany when I was married. We came back from a party, paid the babysitter, who lived across the street. As I held the railing to go upstairs I realized if one of my children needed me in the night, it would be a struggle to get up, and, of course, their father wouldn't even hear them. I turned into the current day equivalent of the designated driver.

Our house was a great party house. Family room in the basement, kids asleep on the second floor. For friends and relatives, perhaps a half hour trip. The gang was down there maybe once a month.  And so it went on until 1973, and I divorced.

It was a different time back then. Divorce needed a cause. One party or the other must be aggrieved and blameless. I didn't know what would happen and I was terrified my husband would do something above and beyond putting me ass over teacup in debt. I stood in the family room and looked at the bong.

It was a work of art, actually. I cannot remember who of the group made it. It was clear plexiglass, and I recall a lot of colored bits. The medical student might have made it; he had access to that kind of plexiglass. My brother might have made it, but I don’t think he had the shop skills. I just don’t know.

How to get rid of it. What if Jim sent a social worker looking for it? I went outside to bury it. No, the neighbors will see me digging a hole. I put it in a trash bag. No, the trash pickup is still a week away, and he just left, knowing he would be divorced as soon as the proceedings went through the court.

Could I take it to work and put it in the dumpster? Too risky. Walking around the basement holding the evidence, I wound up in the laundry room. How about behind the water tank? Stupid. But look there; a panel, not a plasterboard wall where the steps go up. I wonder!

I pushed it in and found a lovely vacancy under the basement steps. The bong went in, I got the panel back in place and went on with my life. I wonder if the next owners of the house ever found it.

A snake that eats its tail

The generation of child rearing between my children and my grandchildren is a mental chasm. I have little sympathy for the child centricity of the current generation of parents with teenagers. Emily did surprise me; when I remarked her crowd might not know how to raise children, given the permissiveness of their parents she rejoined she might not either; she was raised in a mother-centric home. Good call on her part, being raised to coddle and humor her mother on all things.

The whole conversation started when Emily asked about getting a learner’s driving permit. In Ohio one gets behind the wheel only with proof of insurance. She did not know that. In Ohio there are few circumstances that permit a teenager to drive another teenager. She did not understand that, although she is completely aware of Grandma’s Law: Teenagers do not drive other teenagers. It may embarrass her, but the parents of her teenage driving friends (and boyfriend) say they respect Grandma’s Law, although they must chauffeur a child with a license.

The question arose as I drove her to a meeting of the band’s flute squads. I explained a car was rather like the snake eating its tail. She could work to maintain a car to drive to work to earn enough to maintain a car. This family is not affluent enough to maintain a car for the pleasure of a child, and it certainly is not in her birth certificate! (My children should have a nickel for every time they heard that!) How many teenagers have cars to drive, I asked. After some thought, she opined the majority.  “There are not enough streets in Cleveland to hold a car for every poor child who lives there,” I said, and dropped her off.

I did my research before I picked her up again. A bare majority of Ohio teenagers hold driver’s licenses, and the age of getting one is rising, due both to the Great Recession and to the escalating age requirement in Ohio. In fact, it may soon be 18 years of age to begin the learner’s permit process.

On the way home we discussed the immature frontal cortex that causes more teenagers to kill themselves in auto accidents than her grandmother’s doddering age group, in spite of the fact our generation still outnumbers theirs. She gave me that point, whether she believes it or not. I said fewer teens than more currently seem to want to drive in Ohio, in spite of the fact the majority of her teen friends in child-centric households have cars. It is a phenomenon of a pocket of affluence, but she hasn't enough experience to understand it.

I also said I’d be quite grateful if the law raised the age to 18 before I have to deal with it. “Oh, for Laura,” she asked. “No, for you.”

Smart young girl that she is, I remarked I was surprised she hadn't done her research first. No answer. Do you suppose it might be that her computer shuts off at three hours of use in twenty four, and she’s still working on an English paper.

Three teens of legal age; no driver's licenses in their wallets.

We worked hard for this

The best thing about the front garden is how nice it looks from the street.

Our neighbor down the hill in the big house wondered if Emily and Laura might do yard work

That was good for a chuckle. 

Child labor still requires direct adult supervision.

One big garden is enough; there is plenty to do this summer.

Here's a look around at the last two weeks; not in chronological order.

Aunt Laura's iris. This little bed is past its prime, now.

Dad's oriental poppies and Jan's clematis. After two years I may have nursed the clematis back to life.

The peonies. 

Nina's pinks have doubled over these two summers. 

Stella de oro. This bed of bee and butterfly plants is just coming into its own this year.

Solomon's seal and more butterfly plants. The allium in the back is done, and this peony outdid itself this year. This fall it will move back and further down. Better balance.

I bought three very expensive bearded iris last fall. There was a bed of iris in the yard when I was very young and I liked them. These may grown on me. This light purple is too light.

The dark purple too dark. The third iris has no buds.

 The hanging basket I nailed!

The hanging basket I almost nailed. I do like the nasturtiums. 

The hanging basket I'm still fiddling with. I could have bought two ready made for the price of the bedding plants.

That August lily in the triangle just came from Mark's house. Jan spotted his beds of them when she took over some of Aunt Laura's iris to plant at his house.

We had a huge August lily at my childhood home that my dad's mother gave my parents. The cutting we took did not survive the drought of 1988, when we moved here.

And look! On my way back up the steps, the step daisy has new flowers coming. Yay!

Safe!

The road super was mowing this week and drove straight into a situation he’s dreaded for thirty years—a fawn in the tall grass. He stood on the tractor’s brakes, raised the mower, stopped a foot short and sat shaking all over. The fawn did not move, just as instructed by its mother.  

Another road worker we know did kill a fawn this way, years ago, and went home, too ill to carry on. Tim thought about him as he backed the mower away from the fawn and positioned himself to begin farther down the ditch.

This time he watched like a hawk, and there it was, the second fawn, immobile in the grass. Another maneuver around and the rest of his day was just another uneventful summer day on the mower. Tim retires a year from September, and he prefers to arrive at the date with no more near misses.

He told me the story of the fawns as we stood in the road yard, craning to watch the vultures in the dead tree over the salt shed. I've seen them some mornings and didn't have a camera; he noticed them Friday and I did have a camera. Tim is a fan of the Boston pictures page and hopes to see vultures over the salt shed posted soon.

Why mow, when roadside grass is ideal for nesting birds, and flowers that support bees and butterflies? 

Actually, we mow our ditches to keep them clear for flowing water. Townships often do not have storm water drainage except for ditches, and the water is channeled down the valley into the river via the ditches. 

Most ditches are grass covered and pleasant appearing. Grass beyond the ditches is in front yards, or merges into woodland.

Ohio Revised Code stipulates townships must have their ditches mowed the first time each year by June 20th. It takes two men mowing a couple of weeks to get through Boston the first time.

Many roadsides in Ohio have "Do not Mow" designations to maintain the wildflower and wildlife habitat.