What’s for Dinner?

What’s for dinner? That’s a question, and a problem to be solved, almost every single day. Right now, when I’m not feeling at my best, it’s more of an issue than usual.

One night this week I had a bowl of cereal and milk for dinner. Another night, it was rice cakes with peanut butter. Yet another, a plate of fried potatoes with onion. Last evening, I had left-over green beans and buttered egg noodles.

Advantages of these throw-together meals? Well, they don’t generate very many dirty dishes, for one thing. On the rice cake night, I think the coffee pot, a knife, and my morning coffee cup were about the only things I had to wash! They can usually be thrown together in just a few minutes, and they are generally fairly filling.

Filling, but not especially satisfying. And that’s one of the disadvantages. They also tend to be heavy on the carbohydrates, not inclusive of all the food groups, and not particularly healthy. In addition, when a meal doesn’t comfort or satisfy, I find I’m much more likely to continue unhealthy snacking until bedtime.

This evening, I was determined to do better. I brought a pound of ground beef home from the grocery store, and divided it into four. I remember my Grandma Florence saying you should always get six hamburger patties out of every pound of ground beef. Nowadays, when you go to the restaurant, most burgers are advertised as “half-pound.” That’s way too much meat for me! I make quarter-pound patties, and feel like that’s plenty.

I sauteed a part of an onion, diced, with a handful of sliced mushrooms. I pulled them off the heat, then put the burger in the pan. While it was cooking, I toasted half of a pita bread, split it open, and spread mustard on it. After the burger was browned on both sides, I topped it with a piece of Swiss cheese, and the mushroom-onion mixture. Then I put the lid on the pan to let everything finish.

I added a slice of tomato to my toasted pita, then lifted the burger from the pan, with all of its toppings, and placed it on top of the tomato. The pita was crispy, but not crumbly, and held everything together nicely. I felt like I was getting a decent serving of vegetables, too. The hamburger, a rare treat, was delicious!

When all was said and done, it didn’t really take that much energy, or that much time to prepare. With one pan and one plate, plus a few utensils, this meal didn’t generate a lot of dirty dishes, either. All in all, it was a very satisfactory dinner!

Vote!

I went to the Chiropractor yesterday. Before I left, the doctor explained that, because he had manipulated my frame, I would see improvement, but I’d also feel as if I’d been exercising muscles that weren’t used to it. “You might wake up tomorrow feeling like a million bucks,” he said, “or like you were hit by a truck.”

I immediately thought, “Oh, I vote for the million bucks!”

Like often happens when I express my opinion, my vote meant very little. This is definitely more of a “hit by a truck” vibe. Still, I never regret making a choice, even when it doesn’t work out the way I’d like. Give me a few alternatives, and I will pick one: the right color for a room; the most flattering outfit;, the best selection from a lunch menu; the favored candidate.

It wasn’t always that easy. I remember a time in my life when I didn’t have the confidence or presence of mind to make choices. I would look to others to make the decision; and just follow along. My earliest preferences were actually those of my parents, or my older sister, or my best friend. If they were passionate about something, I followed unquestioningly. This didn’t last long, however.

My earliest strong opinions were probably formed over fashion and hairstyles. Mostly, they were negative, rather than positive choices. I decided that I didn’t want the short pixie haircut my mother chose for me; I knew I didn’t like the poofy-sleeved, rick-rack adorned, “little Dutch girl” dresses that she picked out. I had no idea what I wanted instead. For that, I turned to the big Sears & Roebuck catalog. And, in many cases, I quickly found that my vote didn’t count.

Still, that was the start, and my opinions grew. When I was in grade school, President Kennedy was assassinated. By the time I graduated high school, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert Kennedy had been added to that gruesome list. The Civil Rights Movement was in full swing. The Viet Nam war was raging: the draft was taking many young men away to participate. Every week, our local paper ran a list of boys who had been killed in the conflict.

Everyone had strong feelings; no one, at that time in history, seemed lackadaisical about what was going on around us. Whether I was following the crowd, or forming my own opinions, the feelings were intense. That was the beginning of a lifetime of strong opinions.

From my very first apartment, I started studying the Women’s Movement. As a young mother, I held my baby on my lap as I watched the Watergate hearings on TV. I was nineteen when I was first able to vote, and I’ve voted in every major election since. Of course, it has not always gone my way. For more than twenty years, my choice for president never got elected!

That’s a disappointment, of course, but it never soured me on taking the opportunity to express my opinion. Given a choice, I will always take a vote!

Unproductive

I have big plans every spring, and this year is no exception. In many ways, this is my favorite part of the gardening season. I enjoy going through the seed catalogs to decide what I’ll plant. I love getting out the graph paper to plot out my garden spot: a series of raised beds, densely planted. For reference, I always pull out Carrots Love Tomatoes by Louise Riotte, to make sure I’m planting to my best advantage. I also keep Backyard Bonanza: an introduction to Intensive Gardening close at hand. It’s just a small book, published by Rodale Press and years ago was offered free with a subscription to Organic Gardening magazine, but it’s filled with inspiration.

Then comes the actual application. Putting into practice what I’ve worked out on paper involves shovel, rake, hoe, and lots of hard work. Usually I double-dig my beds, adding amendments of compost and fertilizer along the way. Then the beds are staked, twine is strung to keep my rows straight, furrows are hoed, and seeds are distributed. Tomato cages are brought out of the shed and set up; pole bean tepees have to be erected. Finally, mulch or other weed barrier is put down in the pathways. After that, it’s just maintenance.

As I’ve gotten older…busier…more tired…I have cut corners, skipped steps, and ignored plans. As a result, in the last few years my garden has been a disappointment: not as attractive, less productive, and often over-run with weeds. This year was going to be different! This year (and, to be honest, I tell myself this every year) would be my best garden ever. I took this week almost off work. Wednesday, I still have art class, and Friday there is my volunteer shift at the Resale Shop. Still, more time would be freed up to get this job done right.

I started right out making things even more complicated, by deciding to move the garden over. I also had new plans for my raspberries, that have spread through the garden. This year, I intend to “plant” a series of five gallon buckets – with drainage holes punched in the bottom – up to their rims, and re-plant one or two raspberry canes in each, to keep their wandering roots in check.

Moving the garden over involved taking down fencing and pulling up cedar posts, clearing out a large, rock-bordered flower bed, digging up hundreds of daylilies, and breaking new ground. There, my sweet neighbors saved me by bringing their rototiller over and working up the new spot. I think I’ve found a young man I can hire to re-set twenty five fence post, and help me put up the fence.

The problem arose over the weekend. On Saturday, digging up the last of the daylilies before the area was to be tilled, I put my back out. I could feel it going, but I took a couple ibuprofen, and soldiered on. That was a mistake. By that evening, I was sitting with ice packs. Four days later, I’m not much improved. I spent yesterday making appointments for massage therapist, x-rays, and chiropractor. Those appointments are necessary, but crowding my days. It doesn’t matter. Though I’ve forced myself to attempt a little work in the garden every day, there is little I can do right now. In a week that I thought was going to get so much accomplished, I’m basically unproductive!

Things

Whenever I am concentrating on any area of my home, whether cleaning, organizing or rearranging, I cannot escape the fact that I have a lot of things. Working outside is no exception. “Too much stuff,” is a frequent thought, but when it comes to getting rid of things, I’m selective. Often, objects hold memories. They are keepers of history. They evoke feelings; they are charged with emotion.

In the back flower bed, there’s a little grouping made up of parts of an old wood stove and two deer skulls. I remember when my grandsons and I came upon the stove parts in the woods, remnants, maybe, of an old logging camp. Brandon saw it as treasure, and wanted to bring it home. Though my pockets were already filled with sticks and stones and other treasures they were keeping, I refused to haul the stove. “Too heavy,” I said. So, though he was just a little guy, maybe five years old at the time, he carried it home himself. On other days, on walks that led us through Bobby Graves’s hunt camp, Michael and Brandon each found a deer skull. Though those boys are adults now, with children of their own, their treasures still sit in my flower bed, reminding me of when they were small.

Also in that bed is my Flying Pig sculpture, made for me by my son-in-law. He knows I love pigs and, well, pigs with wings are even better! I love that it is made of scrap, that it rolls on little wheels, and that its aluminum wings stay bright all year. From his place of honor among the daffodils, my flying pig watches over the back yard.

That flower bed wraps around the house, to the south side of the house. There, amid the daylilies and beside the kitchen door, is another pig. This one sits on a pole that brings him up to about shoulder height. He’s dressed like an old-fashioned pilot, and sits in a helicopter with rotors that spin in the wind. A little “welcome” sign dangles below the aircraft. This was a birthday gift for me, from my sister, Cheryl, and it always makes me think of her.

Near the vegetable garden sits an old, rustic bench that my husband made, back when he was my husband. It’s made up of 2 x 6 lumber, cut with a power saw, and hammered together. Exposed to the weather all year, the seat has pretty much rotted away. Still, it’s a handy place to put my coffee when I’m out working in the garden!

Someday, no doubt, someone will be tasked with going through my things. I imagine “what in the world…” will be a common refrain, as well as “WHY would anyone hold onto this?” I won’t be able to answer, then, but I can explain right now: the objects that I keep are links to people that I love, or memories that I hold dear. So, thank you very much, for now I will continue to hold on to my things!

Staying on Task

Without a doubt, staying on task is still a big challenge for me. In the last two days, still ignoring housework and studio work, I managed to jump around between at least a dozen projects. Still, from sheer determination and perseverance, I managed to get quite a bit done.

Because my kind and oh-so-generous neighbors had offered to come over with their rototiller, to work up my new garden spot, I had to measure it out, and mark the boundaries with stakes and twine. At the same time, I managed to dig up almost a hundred more daylilies, as they popped up in the old flower bed. That’s after digging up and giving away more than five hundred of them a week ago! So, if there’s anyone out there still interested, they are free for the taking.

Also, in anticipation of my neighbor’s visit, I took the wheelbarrow and shovel around to clean up a winter’s worth of dog droppings. Stella and I take a long walk every day. Off leash, she is able to explore the public lands and roadsides to her heart’s content. I don’t know why she waits until we are home, to do her daily business, but that’s the way it is.

I raked out the rhubarb, which are starting to push through the ground, and the asparagus, that have not shown themselves yet. I pulled up dozens of blackberry brambles. They are welcome around my yard, where they provide me with many bowls of sweet berries at the end of each summer, but I have to keep watch, because they spread quickly into lawn and garden spaces.

I dug up my raspberry patch. They, like the blackberries, continue to spread out, far beyond their designated area. That inhibits their production, for one thing; when they are busy reproducing through their roots, they don’t seem interested in producing fruit. It has been a constant battle to keep them from popping up in the middle of the tomatoes and lettuces! I have a different plan this year.

I have a small collection of five-gallon buckets, with drainage holes cut into the bottom. I intend to bury each of these buckets up to their necks, then transplant one or two raspberry plants into each of them. My hope is that this will prevent them from sending out runners, but will give them enough room to thrive.

I had moved some things out of my back garden bed, in order to fill in a couple holes (Darla was a digger, and liked the shade in that area), and rake it out. I replaced them in their spots. With graph paper and a couple reference books, i plotted out my planting scheme. I hauled several loads of weeds, leaves and brush away, moved the lawn chairs, set up the folding table, moved some more rocks, welcomed my neighbors, and watched the garden spot take shape.

It sounds, in writing, like I moved through these tasks in some semblance of order. No! As usual, I jumped from one job to another, working at everything all at once. It was actually a very productive weekend. I can’t help wondering how much more I could’ve accomplished if I’d simply managed to stay on task!

Repeating Myself

Yesterday, faced with the letter Q, I ran through a list of possible topics. “Questions” was a possibility. Immediately, and for strictly personal reasons, the question that came to mind was, “why is it that having justified anger gives a person so much energy, yet when someone else is angry at you, it seems to sap your vitality?” Good question, I thought. Once, mad at my husband, I single-handedly moved a heavy trunk from the basement of out townhouse all the way up to the second floor. Not angry, I would have struggled to move it across the room! And yet, when someone I love is mad at me, it is a fight to even get out of bed in the morning.

I thought of “Quilting.” My friend, Gwen, a masterful quilt-maker and all-around wonderful human being, would of course be mentioned. She died just about five years ago, but she lingers in my thoughts, and is dearly missed, still. I could also mention the quilting group that I sporadically attend here on Beaver island. Though when I show up, I work on crochet projects while enjoying the conversation and the quilting going on around me.

I landed finally on “Quiet,” and thought, “that is something I could write an essay about!” So I did, and published it for the letter Q. Then, I noticed that I’ve written blogs titled “Quiet” at least three other times! Repeating myself! Again! I suppose its bound to happen. I’ve been writing this blog for twelve years. Though I have lived a long life, it hasn’t been that interesting. I have a finite number of memories, insights, and stories to share.

Sometimes I amaze myself with an ability to write five hundred words about basically nothing, On other days I grapple with being able to link two sentences together about anything! And frequently – more and more frequently as I get older – I find, alas, that I am repeating myself!

Quiet

I like quiet. I know people who can’t tolerate it, who keep a radio or TV going just for the sound, or who talk simply to break the silence. I understand. There are times when the quiet feels oppressive. When I’m around people, but no one is speaking, the air feels charged with apprehension or anger. Not always, but sometimes. Then, I’ll often speak, or at least hum to myself, just to ease the tension. But that’s probably just a holdover from other experiences in my life, when silence was used as punishment, or a weapon.

Most of the time, I enjoy the quiet. I love early mornings, with the sky just barely starting to brighten, the birds beginning their songs, and the dogs still drowsy. Then, I’ll write, or read, or work on some handicraft…nothing too strenuous, and nothing to break the silence. This is my favorite time of the day.

The dogs will eventually decide it’s time to go outside, which always leads to more in-and-out activity for the treats and “good girl” compliments they’ll receive. Then, I’ll put on the news. The spell is broken.

My house is fairly quiet all the time. Rosa Parks is the noisiest of us all. She, though nearly blind, will sense that something is amiss, and loudly and persistently bark to alert us that we are in danger. No matter how many times Stella goes out to circle ’round to make sure we’re safe, no matter how many times I reassure her that we’re okay, she continues on. Stella rarely barks at all.

I talk to the dogs, of course, but not constantly. Telephone conversations are rare, and don’t usually last long. I put the news on in the morning, and usually watch one or two programs or videos at dinnertime. Now and then, I’ll put on a record. Mostly, though, this is a very quiet household. And that’s exactly how I like it!

Procrastination

Procrastination is certainly a topic I ought to be able to write a few words about. I’ve been procrastinating all of my life, since long before I even knew the word to describe it! If a task can be delayed, I will delay it.

According to Mirriam-Webster, “procrastinate implies blameworthy delay especially through laziness or apathy.” It does seem like a major personality flaw. In my case, it has caused me a lot of self-recrimination. For years, I thought of myself as a lazy person. Other than my habit of putting things off, though, I do not shirk hard work. It may look like I don’t care, but I know that I do.

Often, I have found that the procrastinator suffers the most for their actions. I can’t tell you how many sleepless nights I’ve had, trying to meet a deadline for something that I’d put off until the last moment. Shame and embarrassment are frequent companions. Though this has been a tendency I’ve struggled against for most of my life, it has never been “fun.”

I’ve read several books on procrastination, to try to get understanding that might help me to overcome it. Some suggest that procrastination isn’t really a “thing” on its own. It is a symptom, only. It has been suggested that it is one way that perfectionism manifests itself: for fear of not doing a job perfectly, it won’t get done at all. It is high on the list of indicators for ADHD. And sadly, it is often attributed, once again, to lack of motivation, disorganization, and laziness.

I’ve also read a good collection of books on motivation, on forming good and lasting habits, on getting things done. In some areas, I have improved. Still, procrastination is a part of my life. Sometimes, it is because a project is daunting. An overwhelming task is ripe for being put off. Organizing the studio was one of those things, put off for more than two years!

Sometimes, it’s because I’m afraid I won’t live up to my idea; this happens quite a bit where creativity is concerned. Essays aren’t written and painting aren’t actualized…out of fear that I’m not up to the task. I have a series of thirteen large collograph plates based on Native American moons. I made them more than five years ago. After much delay, I printed one of them, was not happy with the result, and have not made an attempt since.

Sometimes, the job being put on the back burner is tedious, or boring. I have a long list of items that fit this category. To read, there is the paperwork sent to me from my supplemental insurance company, the annual Medicare book, and a few articles clipped or saved to read “later.” Paperwork is always high on the list of things that get procrastinated in my house. Instructions for how to assemble my new broad fork cultivator (standing unassembled in my kitchen for 2 weeks), and how to set up my Waterpik (waiting on the ledge over the bathroom sink for a year!), among others. My income tax paperwork for last year is still not even started, already past the April 15th deadline.

This behavior of putting off only adds tension to my life. It makes me embarrassed, ashamed and disappointed in myself. It is not fun. But I can’t deny, procrastination seems to be a permanent fixture in my life.

On to Other Things

After two days spent working outside, it was time to move on to other things. For one thing, the weather changed. After being spoiled by sunshine and “shirtsleeves weather,” yesterday the wind picked up, and it turned cold. It certainly made outdoor work sound less enjoyable. Besides, I needed a break from it, and I had plenty of other things to do.

The day was half-filled with small tasks. I had to go to town in the morning for a blood draw, in preparation for my annual physical, so I added a list of town-related tasks, to accomplish as long as I’d made the trip. I went to the bank and the post office. I stopped at the community center to drop something off. I brought my recyclables to the transfer station.

Next, a visit with my cousin, Bob. I brought him a tote full of freshly dug daylilies, and sat down to talk to him about when I’d need to use his mainland car. I have several medical appointments coming up, some in each of the next four months. Nothing serious, they range from mammogram to eye appointments, but I will need transportation when I get to thee other side. I know that he’s having quite a bit of dental work done on the mainland too, and his partner will be going across for her job at the bank. I wanted to make sure none of our dates conflicted. We had a good visit, and he sent me home with several pots of herbs he had started.

By the time I got home, it was lunchtime. I warmed a cup of coffee to have with my leftovers, and checked the news. I cooked some hard-boiled eggs to have in the refrigerator, and started a loaf of bread so that I can pack sandwiches for my lunches this week. I have enough leftover chicken for at least one sandwich, and I could throw together a dish of egg salad for another. There’s always peanut butter and jelly, in a pinch.

The rest of my day was spent studying. Tonight, my art class is “Lino-Cut Prints.” When I drew up the course outline, it seemed easy enough. I had learned the methods first in high-school, then over the course of several semesters in college. I’ve used the technique…even kind of excelled at it…thirty years ago! As this day drew closer, that thirty years loomed frighteningly over my head. What had I forgotten in all of that time? Could I even remember enough about the processes to teach them? To come unprepared is not only disrespectful to my loyal students, it is the stuff my worst nightmares are made of! So, yesterday afternoon was spent giving myself a refresher course.

I looked up from my books and videos just in time to fit in a walk with the dogs before dinner. Two brisk miles down the Fox Lake Road, then meals all around. While the canines relaxed, I did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, then off to bed early. I work today, and for the next two days, so my progress with the garden will be on hold until the weekend. That’s okay! I was ready to move on to other things.

Not as Young as I Once Was

Sunday, I worked outside for ten hours. I dug up weeds and daylilies, raked and pruned. I settled the Potter’s wheel into its new location. I moved rocks. Then dug some more. After walking the dogs, which was my last outdoor act of the day, my tracker informed me that I had walked eighteen thousand steps. That’s a good eight thousand more than most days! I made a simple supper, then soaked for a long time in a hot bath. I wondered if I’d have enough energy to get out of the tub! I almost drifted off to sleep right there!

Monday, I did it all over again. Well, yesterday I didn’t move the potter’s wheel from backyard to front…or anywhere else. I think it can stay where it is for a good long while. And I only clocked fourteen thousand steps. Still, it was plenty! My knees, my back, and even my hands are complaining. I’m stiff and sore, and feeling every one of my seventy-plus years!

In other years, I’ve put in long spring days working to prepare and plant the garden with hardly a second thought. I used to have more stamina. I used to be lots “bendier.” I can remember when I could get down on my knees without discomfort, and leap right up without help. Now, it hurts! And, if I don’t have something to grab onto, I don’t think I’d ever be able to get back up! With few exceptions, I prepared by garden for planting with a shovel, hoe, and garden rake. No mechanical equipment for me! No hiring others to do my work!

The way I feel this morning, I think I’m ready to cry “uncle” to that stubborn independence. This is a new area for planting. At roughly 20 by 24 feet, it’s a pretty good-sized plot. Even after two days of digging, there is still a lot of area to be opened up, and much of it is dense sod. I am going to look into getting someone to come out with a rototiller, and work up the garden spot. That’s a difficult and humbling decision. But, hey, I’m not as young as I once was!