?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

More Mulch Musings

Mike and I spent three hours apiece this morning, amid threats of torrential rains, spreading mulch to make Earl happy.  Well, to make me happy too in the end as I hope to pull fewer weeds and water my plants less often.

Spreading mulch is hard work. Whether you have a truck deliver it loose, which we’ve done in the past, or you purchase bags at Lowe’s or Home Depot, the actual labor falls on you.  If you have a truck dump it on your driveway, you have to shovel it into wheelbarrows and move it to the proper plant bed.  If you purchase bags, you carry one to the proper place but pay more for each one.

This year we purchased bags and set them around the yard. We did a final weed control procedure and then started laying the mulch. Many plants were already several inches high, so the labor was more intensive. By that I mean, you need to lay the mulch by hand rather than pouring it from the bag so you don’t bombard the flowers.  They don’t want it on their greening foliage.  It’s meant to be on the soil.

Some years we’ve put the mulch down first.  But that means disturbing it to plant flowers later.  That’s equally labor intensive. So the bottom line is that mulch is at least one day’s worth of back breaking work no matter how you look at it. But then if Earl and I are both happy for an entire summer season, maybe it’s worth it.

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Mulch

Earl has always liked the “mulch look” on our flowerbeds, but he isn’t one to help spread it.  This year, I determined that since we’d done it his way for over ten years, I could do it my way.  Which meant no mulch.

So here we are at the middle of June.  My flowers are doing spectacularly, although I do have to water and weed them often.  I attribute this to the fact that I’d lost so many bushes last winter and that, rather than replant right away, I’ve put containers where the old bushes were.  I know containers dry out more quickly than plants imbedded in the soil.

But I will say that the weeds, which I don’t intend to nurture, are cropping up at an unusual rate.  Between them and the watering issues of the potted plants, I’m spending more time on my flowers and wondering if mulch really does serve a purpose.

The man who helps me with my flowers has always said it did.  “Mulch helps retain moisture and keep down weeds,” he’s told me on more than one occasion as we were spreading it for Earl’s pleasure. I guess I didn’t really believe him, since we’d always had mulch.

But I’m becoming a believer, and tomorrow my gardener friend and I are spreading eight bags of the stuff.  Earl won’t help, but he’ll be happy.  And I hope I don’t have to eat too much crow for dinner.

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New Trainer

I met a trainer today at the new health club I joined recently. He is the next in a long line of trainers that I’ve had since my days at the East Bank Club in Chicago.  Some have been good, some have not.  Only one has been great. So I’m holding her up as the base line comparison to this new person.

So far . . . I’m impressed.  Dylan didn’t talk a lot about his achievements and credentials.  He stuck to the work at hand.  He asked intelligent questions about the various forms I filled out and didn’t argue when I said I wouldn’t keep track of my diet for three days.  He weighed me and checked my body mass index and my cardio abilities and did it all in the allotted hour.  Given that the new health club and I have gotten off on the wrong foot since last January, Dylan did a great job in righting what has been wrong so far.

I look forward to what comes next.

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Surprise!

Earl and I were meeting his daughter and son-in-law for dinner last night.  Just as we were leaving our home, the phone rang and someone wanted to meet Earl regarding a real estate deal. I heard him say, “We’re going out to dinner, but I’ll stop by and drop off a business card.”

We stopped by, and Earl asked me to go in with him.  Maybe it was to confirm that we couldn’t stay.  Or maybe it was for some other reason. No matter, I went along . . . which is completely out of character. I usually opt for staying in the car.

So we walked into the clubhouse, and I saw a sign that read “Happy Birthday Anne.”  Hmmmmm . . . I thought . . . we’re crashing someone’s birthday celebration just to pass off a business card?

Then I saw my older son Kevin, and I realized the Anne in question was me. That’s when I lost it, walked over to Kevin with tears and a hug, noticed Don and Sue, then Hugh and Judi, then members of my book club, then Earl’s son Rich, and then, and then.

Earl is the big picture person in our marriage. Me? I’m the detailist.  He says, “Let’s go to Europe.”  I make the arrangements. He says, “I want to see a ballgame in Milwaukee.” I buy the tickets. Yet, he pulled this off without my ever having an inkling that plans were in the works since last year.

So kudos to Earl for hiring a sign maker, a lifeguard, a keyboardist, a caterer, and inviting everyone I would have invited had I been asked.  He just needs to know he’s blown his cover; and, in the future, I’ll assume he can do details too.

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Friday the 13th

It comes around every so often, although I don’t know if there is a discernible pattern or not.  (And I don’t mean the horror movie of the same name.) This year Friday the 13th occurs in June. And that is today. So in honor of this event, I’ve culled bits of information to share.

According to Wikipedia, people who are afraid of this date, regardless of the month in which it falls, are known to have triskaidekaphobia, meaning a fear of the number thirteen.  Wikipedia has a lot more information about this date and its many superstitions, but you can read them yourself.

What I found interesting in my research is how much more there is on the Internet about this specific Friday the 13th.  For instance, it coincides with a full moon, something that won’t happen again until 2049.

The online magazine Slate notes there is only one serious study of what happens when a full moon occurs on Friday the 13th. This isn’t really enough to warrant categorical conclusions since the study has never been duplicated.  The Internet also has links that suggest the day doesn’t actually portend bad luck; rather, people who are superstitious behave differently and therefore view what happens to them as influenced by the date. It is the most disliked (perhaps hated) day in the calendar.

So whether you hang out in the camp where Friday the 13th is interesting (like I do) or fearful, just know that next year the day will occur in both February and March for a double dose. I’m giving you advanced warning.

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D-Day and B-Day Come and Gone

Last weekend was the seventieth anniversary of the invasion of Normandy, France, during World War II. I read that many of those who had participated then were returning to salute their fallen comrades for perhaps the last time.  Those who survive are in their late eighties and nineties now. Our local high school sent its band to perform during the ceremonies that were planned for June 6, 1944.  So there was a lot of publicity in the local media about this event.

Interestingly, there was little on the national news front.  I didn’t check the History Channel, and perhaps it relived that day with films, documentaries, and interviews.  But I’d expected to see more on the main channels.  After all, it was an earth-changing event.

D-Day is particular ingrained in my life, because I was born on June 7.  I don’t mean any June 7; I mean the one after June 6, 1944.  I have the front page of The New York Times framed and hung in my piano room to remind me that as I was being born men and women were dying.  I’m not part of Tom Brokaw’s greatest generation, but I have an affinity for it. It’s fine that the main media didn’t remember my birthday, but I think it’s a shame that they didn’t pay more attention to the seventieth anniversary of D-Day.

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Training

I planned to take the South Shore Commuter Train to Chicago today and headed to Michigan City to pick it up early this morning.  All went well until I arrived at the station and saw at least one hundred children, probably grade school age judging from their appearance and behavior, hovering near the tracks.

Whoa, my mental reins pulled in. Does this mean I’ll have to stand for the two hour ride?  Or will some polite youngster offer a seat? Will I listen to unbridled laughter and silliness when I’d planned on concentrated effort regarding a project for two hours?

I went to the stationmaster.

“Are there enough seats on the train to accommodate all the children and adults,” I inquired.  After all, until I purchased the ticket, there was still the option of driving all the way to Chicago.  She said yes without elaboration.  So I plunked my money down, took my ticket, and headed to where I hoped the train doors would open so that I could be among the first to hop on.

It was interesting.  There were two groups of excited children standing on the track with a group of not-so-excited adults waiting in between them.  One woman actually said aloud to another, “What car are the children going to be in?  We want to be in a different one.” My sentiments exactly, although I had nobody to share them with aloud.

The train finally arrived and inhaled all the passengers.  Sure enough, there was room for everyone with various age groups choosing different cars.  Possibly the children didn’t want to be with the older riders any more than they wanted to be with the children.  All in all, it made me think that the train system has had this experience before and knew what to do.  The ride into Chicago was most pleasant, and I got to work on my project uninterrupted.

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Musings

In the decades where I struggled with understanding husbands and raising children and losing sleep, I consoled myself with the notion that someday I would get to do the things I loved most.

Reading, writing, gardening, playing piano . . . even daydreaming.  Mostly solitary activities that require quiet time, good eyesight, and manual dexterity.

It wasn’t part of a conscious plan, but these activities are amenable to old age. They don’t require constant jiggling of the joints, the latest in sport equipment, or group meetings that consume time.

Age seventy was my goal for finishing all things business-related and for segueing into my “other” life. And it seemed as if it might all work out. My job ended a few months back, and I could have turned attention to the things I love at age sixty-nine.

Instead I redid our living room.  Then I volunteered for three projects. And booked various airline tickets to visit family and friends. My time filled, but not with the activities I’d imagined.

A couple days ago some internal muse reminded me that what I really wanted in my later years was to read, write, garden, play piano, and daydream.  And if I continued to fill previous work hours with other things, those priorities would slip away. Someday I would regret that.

So I need to pay attention here. And I have five days left to make adjustments before I turn seventy.

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Make Writing Your Business

I just read an article with this headline, and I thought it would be about how to focus on the act of writing itself instead of all the adjunct activities that accompany it these days. I thought it would provide real suggestions on when best to communicate with your muse or how to get the family to leave you alone when you’re in creative mode. I thought wrong.

The article was more about the “business” side of writing rather than the passionate side.  Granted, the article was written by the senior content editor for Writer’s Digest; and that organization is out to sell such programs as “Successful Self-Publishing Success,” “Blogging Your Way to Success,” and “Writing the Perfect Query Letter.”

Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve taken some of these programs and always found something useful in them.  At the same time, my muse is bothered by the trend that writing is becoming all about marketing first and writing second.  Find out what an agent wants; then write it. Troll book shelves to see what’s being published these days. Use that data to inform your own writing. Be sure you have your platform ready.

I wonder what Natalie Goldberg thinks of all this.  Her guide, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, is exactly the kind of advice I was looking for in the current article.  She is all about the writing itself, about being passionate about the work. Of course, her book was published in 1986, long before all the hoopla about social networking and self-publishing really went into high gear.  And Goldberg does have a website now.

Still if you have nothing to say from the heart, what is the point?

P.S. I wrote an essay about Goldberg that is included in my book, The Square Root of Someone. I’ve added it to the Potpourri section of this website.

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Contest

There’s something about external deadlines that gets me motivated. Maybe it’s because I was a freelance writer for twenty-five years and had to turn in copy on time to get paid. Perhaps it harkens further back to when I was in college and term papers had deadlines that affected grades.

Since I no longer freelance or write for professors, the hardest thing I do any given day is sit down and write.  There’s always something pulling me elsewhere.  But give me a deadline, and I’m there.

So . . . the local paper announced that The Box Factory for the Arts is sponsoring a ten-minute play writing competition with the deadline of June 30, 2014.  The winning six plays will be produced and performed the beginning of December. I’ve already started on my entry, and will just say it has to do with that old thought almost everyone has had:  “If I had my life to live over, what would I do differently?”

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