If I could turn back time, erase the grey from your muzzle and see again the sleek blackness of your youth, would I?
If I could turn back time, experience again the joy of your discovering this thing called a bed, would I?
If I could turn back time, to when warm days called for a dip in the wading pool and a full-speed dash around the yard, would I?
Or would turning back time erase not just the gray from your muzzle, but the memory of that first time you trusted me?
Would turning back time erase the memory of how wonderful it felt when you would lie beside me in the bed, one paw touching my leg to assure yourself I was there?
Or the way your eyes follow me all around the room, and how you whine when I leave you behind, even though you hate going with me?
Would turning back time erase the memories of all those firsts we had together -- the first time you ran to me when you were scared; the first time you walked around someone you usually avoided, but this time he was between you and me, and you wanted to be beside me; the first time you treated me to your happy-happy-mommy's-home dance.
Would I risk losing those memories just to have you young again?
No, for those memories bind us together. Those memories are what make you so precious to me, watching you blossom from the shy scared dog of 2004 to the silver senior sneaking the other dogs' food.
But I hate the silver in your muzzle, the hitch in your step, the pain in your back. They remind me that you are 13 now, not 4. That we're in your bonus years, and bonus years don't last forever.
I hate the effect your age has on your body, and the constant wondering when you'll decide enough's enough, and there's a rainbow bridge right outside your doorway.
I don't have enough words to tell you how much I love you; how precious you are to me and how honored and humbled I am that you chose me to be your person, and your safe place. All I have are tears as I witness your aging, and an ache in my heart as I treasure these precious days together.
If I could turn back time, and choose again to love that shy black greyhound with half a tail, even knowing that one day my heart would ache from that love, would I?
You bet I would.
I'm stealing a bit from our own Sharon Brown...she said this in a blog post recently, and it really spoke to me the first time I read it, and again tonight:
I think maybe as gardeners we have something inside us that can only be content when we are right in the middle of the soil, right there to see which little critter is scattering pollen, right there to sing along with the birds. And when that pattern is abruptly disturbed, when we don't get our dirt laden fix, our souls become irritable, disturbed.
As I was thinking, a long ago hymn from my childhood made its way to my thoughts and now it's embedded there at least for the duration of this day.
"When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul."
My best guess is that to us, gardening makes it well with our souls.
It's been a long two months. We had some unexpected changes at work, followed by the sudden acceleration of a project I was helping with, and I quickly found myself losing my work-life balance. I treasure that fine line I walk between giving my all to my employer, and giving my all to my every day life. I've learned through the years that I need to take care of me in order to take care of my job. But I've also learned that sometimes you have to take care of the project, and other things become secondary. The trick is to not let other things become SO secondary that you forget they exist, and become subsumed in the work projects. That's a clear road to burn-out, and it's a path I know well from previous travels.
So I watched myself, and carved out time for myself where I could, and made sure I did things that nurture me. But there was no yard time, for most of these last two months. Mornings were not spent drinking coffee on the back porch, listening to the Carolina Wrens alternately scolding and singing. Evenings were not spent wandering the yard, visiting the new growth, cheering on the late bloomers, making plans for new projects. Instead, I drank my coffee at my computer, sending work emails 2 hours before my work day officially started, or seven hours after it officially ended. I endured it, because I knew it was short term, and I knew it was important.
That project is successfully completed, thank goodness, and I now find myself wondering how to fill some of the hours in my work day - haven't wondered about *that* in over two months, believe me. And this week, for the first time since early July, I've had "yard time" again. And just in time.
Last weekend, both my daylily clubs held their annual get-together where the members take all the points they've accrued by attending meetings, helping with shows, plant sales, etc, and use them to "buy" daylilies. Between the 2 dozen I carried home from those 2 galas, and the ones I had bought at sales in early June and planted in pots for safekeeping, I had almost four dozen daylilies that needed a new home before winter. And another half dozen that were given to me when a friend was cleaning out their seedling bed.
September in GA has been beautiful this year, so it's been easy for me to head outside after work and reclaim some space between a few trees that was originally intended for planting. I had this past Friday off as a comp day for some of the long hours I put in during the project, and had intended to run to the mountains and spend some time with my favorite waterfall, but decided I'd rather stay home and play in the dirt.
I honestly did not know how much I needed that time spent raking bags of soil conditioner and potting soil over layers of cardboard and newspaper; how much my hands had been craving the touch of the soil. But I know this -- the hours I spent in this new bed yesterday and today, finishing the prep-work and then rehoming the daylilies, restored my soul in ways that are beyond description. It was a purely solitary affair, other than waving at neighbors driving by, or chatting with the big box store clerk as she rang up yet another purchase of bagged goodies for the plant bed. Final count is in the neighborhood of 60 total bags of potting soil/soil conditioner/compost that I shoved into my little PT Cruiser and toted home, driving into my yard and right over to the new bed to minimize the distance I'd have to lug the bags.
Honest toil, leaving me dripping with sweat, and with visible results for my efforts, that brought peace to my soul even as it made unused muscles protest. This is not the final home for these plants -- this was just "get them in the ground before winter" planting. I still need to research them and rearrange the bed to provide the most beauty for myself and my neighbors. Tomorrow, I'll line the outside edge of the bed with spring bulbs, add more nutrients to make the worms happy, and top it with mulch. Next weekend, or maybe later this week, I'll transfer some other plants from pots to in-ground locations, or re-pot the house plants before bringing them inside for the winter. But for now, this will suffice until I'm again craving the feel of soil on my skin.
And in five or six months, the soul-work I did this weekend will feed my soul again, as first the spring bulbs and then the daylilies begin their display of beauty that is unmatched by anything made by man.
There was an old tractor show at the local Farmers' Market today, so I went. It's been a LONG time since I've had anything to do with any tractors larger than a small riding mower, but just thinking about them started me traipsing down memory lane.
When I was 13, we bought some property "in the country." In our case, "the country" was about 20 miles south of the capitol city I grew up in. Friends of ours had bought an old farmhouse there, and told Dad that he should buy some of the land next to them and we could be neighbors. At that point, our future home was still a soybean field. Mom and Dad thought it was a grand idea, and we wound up going into partnership with a couple friends and buying 30 acres together. One acre of that was the lot for our home, and the rest was a combination of pasture and oats/corn that could be used to feed the steers we'd buy at spring auction and butcher over Christmas break. We fenced off a section of land where we could pen the steers for the last couple months before moving them to the barn. And then there was the garden...the LARGE garden.
At 13, I did not fully appreciate the benefits of our huge garden - all I knew was that it was a ton of work to keep it watered, weeded, and de-bugged. And because we didn't live there yet, we would get up on summer mornings and drive the 30-45 minutes from our house to "the garden," and wind up doing all the work there during the heat of the day. I think that's where I developed my life-long aversion to weeding. *chuckle*
But one of the benefits that I *did* appreciate was the tractors. Dad and Don went to the local auctions and came home with a couple "vintage" machines...an Oliver that needed to be cranked to be started, a rusted-red Massey-Harris, and an old John Deere. I was considered too young/too small to drive the Massey-Harris, but the John Deere was within my abilities.
I could not begin to tell you the year/model of it, but I remember that the throttle was a lever on or above the steering column, that one pedal was a brake and another the clutch, and that the gear shift was temperamental. The seat cover was cracked and peeling, weathered by the elements, and the tractor had a distressing habit of popping wheelies because it didn't have enough weight at the front of it. Because of that, there were things I wasn't allowed to do, like plow or disc, in case it somersaulted while I was driving it (it did for Dad, a couple times).
To shift gears, you had to come to almost a complete stop, shift the gears, and then increase throttle while easing off the clutch to avoid inadvertent wheelies. I have to admit, when I learned how to drive Dad's pickup truck with its "three on the tree," it took me awhile to get out of the habit of slowing down for each gear-shift.
So I headed to the Farmers' Market this morning with my camera, determined to bring home both some fresh, locally grown goodies, and more importantly, some photos that corresponded with my memories. I had small hope of finding a hand-crank Oliver there, but surely someone would have a Massey-Harris, or an old John Deere.
First thing I saw was an old John Deere, but it didn't look like the *right* John Deere. Still, it was a beautiful tractor.
A flash of red caught my eye, and my heart lifted, thinking "Massey Harris!" but it was a Farm-All.
Next in line was a bright yellow -- Yellow? I had no idea they had yellow tractors -- International machine. I had forgotten that International made tractors -- guess I've been back in the city for way too long.
Some more vintage Deeres, and then I saw it. Faded red, not fully restored or repainted, but even without seeing the front, I knew what the lettering on it would read... Massey Harris. This model was older than ours, and had a crank to use in case the battery and electric starter decided to be persnickety. It looked smaller than the tractor of my teen years, but that might just be the effect of my own aging and growing.
Turns out the owners of the Massey are almost neighbors of mine - we're probably within five miles of each other, and we had a nice chat about childhood tractor memories. That's the owner in the picture with it.
I could see some other Deeres in the line of tractors, but they were all shiny with their pretty green paint jobs, so they weren't really reminding me of childhood. Even so, I wandered down to them so I could say I'd looked at all the tractors, and there it was.
It may not be exactly the same year/model as the one I used when I was 14 and older, but it was similar enough.
Overall, it was just a normal looking tractor, but when I got closer I could see the throttle lever in front of the steering wheel, and the same skinny metal pedals I remembered; one pedal on the left side, two on the right, and gear shift on the floor between them.
And such is the power of memory that even as I sit here in my air-conditioned Georgia home writing this post, I can feel the Ohio summer sun beating down on my bare shoulders and smell the sweet fragrance of new-mown grass and clover as I listen to the pocketa-pocketa rumbling of the old John Deere with the bush-hog whirling behind me mowing the pasture while the traffic flows by on US33 and Mom is hanging clothes on the line to dry in the fresh breeze.
Good times, they were...very good times. And good memories, thanks to "Old Tractor Day" at Cherokee Fresh Market.
(note: as ever, click photos to embiggen)
Back on the 6th of March, I posted about my "next project," a raised bed expansion in the back yard. At that point, I had gotten the landscape timbers I needed, but hadn't done much of anything else.
I dropped the idea of the inset portion, and went with a straight line (it was easier, and more aesthetically pleasing, for me). When it was finished, the dogs wanted to check it out, so I knew I needed a barrier on top of it. I couldn't stand looking at that "lame border fence" anymore, so it went to recycling, and I invested in some vinyl lattice sheets. Seems you can get them in 2x8ft sections, and that was perfect.
I call this phase "the middle" because it will be at least fall before I'm ready to think about planting in it. First I'm trying to kill the vinca minor groundcover that's in the original portion, and I still need to fill in the expanded portion. Total bed-size is now approximately 11x40ft, and at least 5x40 of that is new.
So I'm tossing old brush, new brush, papers, cardboard, etc in there. Grass clippings will go in there as well, when I have some. If I can snag some free wood chips, I'll toss those in, too. This picture is from April 8.
I've been cutting down some smaller trees that were in bad locations, or trees I didn't want, so I've tossed those in as well. These pictures were taken today. I *should* go in there and trim the branches from those logs, but that can wait for another day.
By October, I want to be putting some plants in there. We'll see if we make that target date or not. First, I need to finish putting down the plastice to bake the groundcover.
It's been almost two months since I said goodbye to my little Zoe, and a couple weeks ago, Casey got sick again. I say "sick" and "again," but it's not really either one -- it's a flare-up of a condition she was diagnosed with 3 years ago.
She has back problems, centered in her lower spine. Three years ago, that netted her six weeks bedrest and lots of good drugs, followed up with regular chiropractic visits. This time, she's just getting the good drugs. LOL Seriously, Doc says she'll be on pain meds for the rest of her life. Doc also says "this is not the beginning of the end." Yeah, I asked her -- I need to know these things. *sigh*
Doc took an x-ray and said she sees severe deterioration in the lower spinal region. I didn't see the x-ray --- I didn't have time to stay with Casey at the vet, I just dropped her off last week on my lunch hour and a friend picked her up for me after she was seen. We go to a vet specialist on April 3. She'll tell me whether acupuncture can help, or if she has other ideas.
Tonight I took her x-rays to my chiropractor (he adjusts her, too), so he could tell me what it looked like, and he wasn't in today. He and his wife decided at the last minute to stay home with their kids on the first day of spring break. Had I known that, I'd have taken her x-rays to him last Friday.
The chiro who was covering for him is a lady I like, and I like how she adjusts Casey.Again, if I'd known she was going to be there, I'd have taken Casey with me, because she needed adjusted, but it was 85F when I was leaving the house, and I hate taking dogs in the car with those temps, especially as I had stops to make along the way.
She looked at the x-rays, and said the vertebrae are dropping :(
Driving home, I was thinking about my girl, and wishing I'd have taken her to be adjusted, even though it was so hot. If I had, then when the specialist saw her tomorrow, she'd see her at her relative best. Then it occurred to me that if I hosed Casey down before putting her in the car, that would help keep her from getting overheated. So I went home, let the dogs out, hosed them both down so no one would feel left out, and took Casey back to chiro for her adjustment (50mile round trip).
Dr R was happy to see us come back (she says she's honored I trust her to adjust my dogs), and because she had seen Casey's x-ray, she used a different approach than she would have otherwise. She told me that her sense is that where Casey's vertebrae are dropping, her skin is attached to the spine, so when the vertebrae drop, it pulls the skin and adds to the pain. I don't know if you could ever see that on an x-ray, but apparently she's an Intuitive. She showed me some things to do, and Casey had no problem with what she was doing, and I could see the difference. Then she did the normal adjustment.
But I wanted to tell you about Casey rescuing me tonight... it was on the way back to chiro with her. I've been a mess all day, wondering what the new doc will say tomorrow, wondering what it will do to my wallet (Tuesdays' visit will be $110-175 depending on what we do - ouch!), wondering how my girl is really doing. She's such a STOIC dog and almost never complains about anything. So I take it *very* seriously when she yelps. Her yelping is how we discovered her issue in the first place, and how we found out it was back.
But she's also a HAPPY dog...this little girl, who was scared of the entire world, has come out of her shell to the extent that in the last year or so she's actually gotten in trouble! When I first knew her, she'd never have tried to push any limits. She's almost always smiling, and as long as she can see where I am, her life is good. When she's scared, she runs to me - I'm her safe place (I choke up every time I tell people about that).
I've been so scared, since Mar 22 when she yelped again and we found out it was back. Scared I can't do what she needs, can't be the strong person she needs me to be, that I'll let her down somehow. And I was kicking myself all over the place tonight for not taking the x-rays to chiro on Friday (but I couldn't have gotten there before they closed), and then for not taking her with me when I knew she needed adjusted... you know the things the critics in our heads can say to us, Don't really know why we still listen to them after all these years - we should all know better by now, and yet the critics are still in there fussing away, and I for one am still listening to them, apparently). Then I glanced back at her during a stop-light, and saw my sweet girl just stretched out in the back, panting hard (she does that on car rides) and smiling cause she got to go somewhere with her mama.
I had already given up, had already decided that no matter what my vet said, it was the beginning of the end, or at least the decline. I was already expecting the specialist to say that acupuncture wouldn't really do her any good, cause she was too far gone and I should have taken her there last year when Doc first referred us (but that flare-up got better, so I figured I should save my $$ while I could).
Her eyes were watching me, and I could almost hear her telling me it's all ok, and we're going to make it, and that she trusted me, that whatever I do is ok with her. (dang, I'm crying as I write this - I've needed those tears, too) Watching her, the strongest thought in my mind was "SHE hasn't given up -- why am I?" And then I wasn't, anymore.
That's why I say she rescued me...I was on the edge of Bunyan's "Slough of Despond," ready to be totally hopeless when everywhere around me God's nature is showing me that hope is as unquenchable as spring's new life, and Easter is less than a week away.
My vet and I are agreed - within the constraints of my budget, as long as she's a happy dog, all is good. When it gets too much for her, I'll let her go. Unfortunately, Doc can't give me a timeline. Much as I'd like to have one, Casey doesn't need one. Dogs live in the moment, and her moments are happy as long as she's with me. She's already adapted to sleeping beside my bed instead of on it.
Me, on the other hand? I live in the future, in my mind, looking ahead to worst-case scenarios, trying to prepare myself so the eventual heartbreak won't be quite as agonizing (as if anyone can ever blunt the edge of heartbreak/heart-ache. The only way through it is to feel it). I'm trying to live day by day with her, but it's hard for me, because I know that no matter what, the end result for me is more heart-ache. What a great lesson to be learning, though, and what a fantastic teacher she is for it.
** I have never considered Casey to be a "rescued greyhound." She's a retired racer, who was released into an adoption group at her retirement. I reserve the "rescue" term for dogs who were in danger, and she never was. But it made a great title for a blog post.
