consolationland

Oh oops — it’s an even-numbered date. My turn to water the garden. Should have thought of it sooner, but I was out at the store stocking up on bulk grains. Well, ok. Downstairs we go.

Ok, so bumbling in the dark with this triple-sized hose trying not to trip or to trip the smokers who are innocently strolling to their designated zone by the garbage cage and who don’t expect the shrubbery to be full of water or me. I collected some ankle-level bug bites right away even through my compression stockings, narrowly avoided taking out a really ambitious giant spider web, and panicked some bunnies who realized that sitting perfectly still could get them thwacked with the hose.

You saw this coming. All this nocturnal activity was way too much action to miss. One of our resident little girls and her Mom hurried to help by turning on their Christmas lights to illuminate the work and give the scene a festive air. Melina, another of our little girls, rushed outside wearing a pretty flouncy white dress with twirly skirt, costumed much like the white gladiolas in this picture, with a public service announcement: she and her Dad were coming outside! to re-home a scary bug! that got into the house! As far as my ankles went, one more bite wasn’t going to make much difference except to the bug, so I told Melina to bring it on.

Melina left her hula hoop outside their door, because with a good toy or game you never know when it might come in handy later in the day. She has a little rotating exhibit of hoops and balls and such going on. That’s against building rules, but the Management team somehow fail to notice because Melina keeps rushing out to greet everybody with a Richter magnitude of friendly cuteness.

I did a pretty ham-handed job with the hose and its sprayer and all those heavy coils. Melina told me all about her family hose, how the nozzle has many adjustable volume options but her very favorite is JET all the way. I have to admit that yes, if I used JET all the way with this hose, I’d be finished in no time. Of course, the plants would be finished too, so we’ll have to trudge along with regular gentle spray. She and I made a plan that I’ll bring my own hula hoop downstairs, maybe tomorrow, and we can do some hulaing.

Dad though reminds her that the family is going swimming tomorrow. That leads to a discussion: what happens when you hula hoop in water? Is it really easy, or really hard? Will the hoop sink? If it floats, can you stand still and just let the water float the hoop around, and if so does that count as real hooping?

Finally done! Well, most of it. I had to skip Mrs. Wing’s many small pots of special herbs; they are too hard to see in the dark up on the wall, and I don’t want to knock them over. But, enough water got tossed around that they should be okay. I started wrapping up coil after coil of hose to put it away, musing to Melina’s Dad that this is good training if I ever want to go to the Everglades and pin down pythons for cash. He had not heard of this Florida entertainment, and was probably not expecting this conversation while taking out a simple bag of recycling. But he wished me well in whichever path (Snakes vs. Hoses) I might choose, and did it in a hearty Scottish accent. I tried a Braveheart accent in return with unconvincing success.

“My Braveheart accent just sounds like Supernanny instead,” I had to admit.

“I was aiming for Monty Python,” he explained, guiding a suddenly sleepy Melina off to bed by the hand.

I stayed a moment to catch a picture of the gladiolas while trying hard not to scratch my ankles.

As I headed for the door a bunny watched me, sitting very very still.

The nasturtium patch, in July

I had to plug in a new Apple Mac Mini. That should mean plugging a polarized 3-prong plug right in to a polarized 3-prong socket in my surge protection power strip. But what’s this? The new Mac plug is non-polarized and 2-prong. Hm. This was going to need a 2-prong to 3-prong adapter. So I took a bus trip to the big hardware-&-everything store. At the counter, the friendly mechanically inclined men directed me to the adapter aisle section.

This was a big section at the way back, with boxes and bins full of everything one could think of for adapting any gizmo to anything else. Some adapters were very elaborate, some industrial-sized, a lot of it had a vintage look as if it came from a salvage yard or was sitting on the shelf for years. I pored over all of the different types. There was not a single 2-to-3 in sight. Back at the counter, the men were puzzled when I described the type needed, even when I explained again holding up 2 fingers on one hand and 3 fingers on the other, with plug/unplug hand gestures. They advised me to get in my car and take the Interstate three exits to the commercial electricians’ warehouse. “They can advise you on the safety,” one man said. “You sure don’t want to be plugging in the wrong thing and blow up your house.”

Instead of finding a weekend Interstate bus line and doing the Finger Dance for the electricians, I went home to fret for a while. Then the following week I logged in to our workplace Tech Support office hour, and told them the story. “Why does a new Apple model require the most exotic adapter? What are the odds of blowing up the house? This is all Greek to me!”

“Apple takes care of grounding the connection right inside the new model,” said our IT team. “Apple doesn’t bother telling you that. They just tell you that the model is sleek, and comes in a cool silver color. You can just plug it right in to your power strip. The hardware store had to give you that standard warning, just in case you were going to take the power strip and plug in your washer & dryer. And by the way,” they protested, “Since you are actually learning Greek, you have henceforth surrendered the right to say that. From now on, nothing will be ALL Greek to you.”

“Good point,” I said. “Ok, it’s all Javascript to me.”

“There ya go,” they agreed. “Enjoy your new Mac.”

__________

On the bus back from the hardware store, there was a long wait at the transfer stop. The sun was beating down. The other passengers had a distressing time in the heat. Many were weighed down by personal belongings, and needed to keep their bags and bundles together and ready to move quickly. One woman with a walker seemed especially upset; she was talking rapidly into her cell phone, in a raised voice monologue. I didn’t understand her particular language, but she was clearly agitated. Her speech was slurred, her gestures erratic; she was pacing and darting back and forth. On a heavy chain she was yanking and dragging a very small thin white dog. He was a pretty creature, whippet-shaped with pointed ears and a furrowed brow and very expressive face. He was on constant alert, trying to predict which way the chain would yank him next, dodging people and his owner’s erratic feet, looking frightened of the traffic, searching our faces. I wished that his owner would use a light leash and stop yanking him around, that she would either hold him in her arms, or at least place him securely in a sit/stay between her feet with a few words of encouragement.

Finally the bus arrived, and we all got on. The dog rushed to hide under the closest seat, right at the front. The woman and I sat there opposite one another, on facing seats. From across the aisle, now in English, still in a raised voice monologue, she began telling me her story. She had no family. Her medical and housing and social support systems had fallen to pieces. She’d had multiple strokes that affected her speech. She had heart failure and terribly swollen knees that made it painful to walk. She showed no awareness of the dog’s presence or mood, but told me that he was a stray rescue and her only friend. Without him, she did not know how she could get through the day.

With her story unfolding, my heart went out to her. Dear heavens, another person who could really use some kindness! I leaned forward and watched her speak to better understand her speech. As she told me all about her daily life, I made a point of expressing admiration for whatever good decisions she’d made to build a margin of safety for her and her dog.

At the sound of my voice, the dog snapped to attention. Dragging his chain he shot out from under the seat and stretched up to tuck his paws in my lap and hide his trembling face flat against my chest. I circled him with my arm and sheltered his head with my hand. I wanted very much to grab the chain and the dog, tuck him in my jacket, and take him right to Angelina’s so we could share custody. “Surprise! New pack member!”

The owner rang the overhead bell rope, grabbed her shopping cart, and tugged the chain. The two got off the bus.

__________

On Friday night the foliage in my lovely nasturtium patch began turning yellow. A closer look showed that black aphids had taken over, seemingly overnight. They coated the plants like fuzzy moving pepper. Rolling up my sleeves I carefully unwound twelve feet of lush beautiful flowering vines from among the neighbors’ vegetables and fencing. In sections I snapped off and wound up spools of vines, getting sticky aphid essence all over my skin, holding the greenery at arms’ length and marching them to the compost bin. (I was walking them to the landfill bin for fear that as recycled compost they would spread to other gardens. But Captain Wing spotted me. “Just take them to the compost bin. Aphids won’t survive that.”) The whole routine made quite a spectacle for the children. They wanted to come exclaim with surprise and dismay, pointing at but not touching the moving fuzz of aphids.

It’s touching and sobering to witness how these little ones will run right over and follow me around and believe what I tell them just on faith. To me, children are not particularly cute or fun; they are a heavy magnitude of responsibility, astute witnesses who watch and remember, and before them I’m responsible for every word and action. Jesus was clear enough that anybody who misleads them is heading toward a millstone and the sea.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m pulling up the nasturtiums.”
“Why?”
“See this black fuzz? That is black aphids. They are living on these plants.”
“Why?”
“Because aphids enjoy drinking plant juice. But it’s not good for the plants.”
“Why?”
“Because the plants need that juice for nutrition and energy. If aphids take too much, the leaves turn yellow. It’s not good for the plants.”
“It’s not good! For the plants!”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t want those bugs on my DRESS.”
“Yes, I don’t want these vines to get on your dress or my clothes, so I hold them out like this.”
“You are holding them away because it is BUGS. I don’t like any bugs.”
“Well, when they are at home outside all bugs are good if they are in balance with other bugs.”
“Has to be balance! With bugs!”
“Yes. It is only a problem when ONE kind of bug takes over all the area and gets all of the food. Then it doesn’t leave room for other creatures. That’s why I’m taking these to the compost bin now.”
“Mom said I can walk you to the compost bin! We can take them there!”
“Ok. It’s right inside that garbage cage. Then we’ll come right back to your mom. Here we are at the bin. It’s full of vegetables and fruit.”
“Lots of fruit in there! It’s everybody is putting their fruit!”
“Yes. The city picks up the bin, and turns the vegetables and plants into compost. It makes dirt for growing plants.”
“Then the plants can grow! And it’s good for them!”

A slightly more pleasant job was hacking down the whole spearmint patch. The plants are in full flower, but the leaves developed a white powder mold. To my mind, if the plants aren’t pretty and in top form, out they go. But the blossoms are an important attraction for pollinators. So I snipped off the flowers, buzzing with happy bees, and placed the flowers in a crock of cold water. Fortunately, the bees were happy to transfer their efforts to the cut flowers.

Neighbor A asked about a small bag of leftover potting soil on one side of the garden. Who owns it? Would the owner be interested in selling it? He of course made an assumption that I would know the owner, and how to find him and negotiate the deal. As it happens, I knew that the owner is Neighbor B, who has a favorite smoking chair. While I was out gardening he came outdoors, and I posed the question. Neighbor B named a reasonable price of $6 for the half bag. So I walked to Neighbor A’s apartment to let him know. Then of course at his door I realized that it would be more efficient to just walk back again to Neighbor B’s, pick up the bag, and tote it over there. I walked back to Neighbor B’s. But the bag was too heavy for me. So, I walked back to Neighbor A’s again, to knock on his door and let him know about the $6 and the bag. But before knocking I remembered that Neighbor A works nights; I’d have to go upstairs and write him a note instead. Then I realized it would be smart to first walk back to Neighbor B’s and just hand him $6 and let Neighbor A pay me back instead of brokering a meeting between the two. But when I arrived at the smoking chair, Neighbor B had gone indoors. I’ll just leave Neighbor A a note in our Daily Journal greeting notebook that we tenants keep on the lobby table.

Meanwhile, texts were coming in about the garden from people who could look out the window and see me puttering. Then more people strolling by on the street spotted me and stopped to chat:

1. Where are the nasturtiums? They were really pretty. Why did you get rid of them?<br>
2. Thank you for watering the Wings’ garden today. I did it yesterday, so we’re good for now.<br>
3. You have some cherry tomatoes getting ripe. You should eat them before the squirrels do.<br>
4. I’d like to prune back my [plant name here], but there’s some kind of Chinese herb growing around it and I don’t want to damage any. Whose is that? [It’s fish mint. It walked over from the Wings’ garden. I’ll go move it out of the way.]<br>
5. Where’s the SPEARMINT? It had flowers!<br>
6. Are the Wings ok? I haven’t seen a single Wing in 2 whole days. <br>

I answered all the texts and several verbal inquiries with the glad tidings that The Wings are fine. They’re just taking vacation from the lot of us.

(Hm, who left me this vase of gladiolas? Why are my pink geraniums looking great all of a sudden? Who would go about wreaking this kind of niceness? Should we question the usual suspects?)

Last week the Wings went away for two days of well-earned vacation. Captain Wing asked whether I would water their kitchen garden until they came back. Would I ever! It felt good to have the vanishingly rare chance to finally do something useful for them. What’s more, there was no need to haul water in my one-man bucket brigade, because Captain has installed a super long hose for everyone’s convenience.

That hose did prove super handy. It is though surprisingly heavy to drag around, especially when it is full of running water, so in my clumsy struggle I managed to whap down a couple of Mrs. Wing’s berry bushes. But somehow the bushes seemed to straighten up again and got their water, surviving their weekend with me. The family came home to a nice harvest of berries and vegetables.

On Day One I was struggling with the hose, lifting and moving it coil after coil in big armfuls. It called to mind those folks who subdue Burmese pythons in the Everglades for bounty money. One of the neighbors spotted me. “Are you doing the Wings’ watering for them? Then watch out,” he warned me. “If you do something nice for a Wing, they will never forget. They will do FIVE even nicer things for you.”  

He’s right, of course. It’s been Payback Time ever since. Upon their return, Mrs. W. came running outside with a quart of whole home-toasted walnuts, plus a sizzling platter of the most delicious tender eggplant, sauteed in bacon and snow peas with some kind of flavorful green herb. She also started placing a vase of fresh-cut flowers from her garden patch into my garden patch, refreshed daily. This false advertising leads passersby to think that my garden is much showier than it truly is. In case this were not enough, since the family’s return my pink geraniums have skyrocketed in size and number of blooms. It turns out that they’ve been getting secret doses of Wing Wormfarm Tea, from special red worms fed on the choicest overripe whole fruit. Maybe I can persuade the family to go away more often. But it’s great to have them back.

________

Sunday morning, bus stop. A friendly young man and I exchange smiles. “What is the GOOD WORD?” he hails me in greeting.

“Everything,” I greet him back. “Every one of these words is a good word.” I hand him my Greek-English prayer book.

“Ooooooooh my gosh,” he says, looking it over and shaking his head. “But, you know what? Ought to study the Hebrew first. That is the true Bible.”

“Hebrew is good,” I agree, while wondering: Is there a Hebrew Orthodox Christian Church out there?

“People come along, translate to Spanish for me, English for you,” he adds. “But in any language, people are gonna argue: Does it say this, or Does it mean that. Best way to read the Bible? It’s with your open heart, and with the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen!” I agree to agree, as the bus arrives and our journeys begin — one to a Spanish-speaking church several towns over, one to a Greek church one transfer away.

“Mine has the best TAMALES,” he assures me.

_______

At church that day, a wee little girl all in purest lacy white joins the Communion line holding up a tall yard-long lighted white candle with white ribbons. She walks hand in hand with her mother, who also holds a tall white lighted candle. The little girl is nearly borne aloft with the joy and seriousness of that walk to the altar. If this were a Catholic church, one might think that this was her first Holy Communion. But in Orthodoxy, Eucharist is administered even to babies. Is this child newly baptized? Whatever the reason, she and her family are forging a beautiful life memory in their procession toward the front of the church. They stop right at my pew waiting for the line to move.

The Orthodox show no fear of open flames. They will happily hold lighted candles even in a packed crowd, even while jostling around up and down steps while processing midnight streets on Easter Eve. But for me, the sight of a thrilled small child steadying a yard-long candle in one hand does not inspire peace of mind. A sudden instinct, one that perhaps only Gavin de Becker would understand, prompted me to drop my prayer book and crouch down to the level of the little girl. Just then, as she glanced up at her mother with an exchange of smiles, the usher ahead of her signaled to the pew ahead of mine, and took a sudden step back. My arm shot out to the seat of his pants and gave him a hard shove. Naturally the good man turned quickly to investigate. In a glance he summed up my motives, and offered me his thanks. The line went on in peace.

Catcub’s Beloved Owner is away, helping a relative with a medical emergency.

This is big news for Catcub. Up until now, Beloved Owner worked at home and has never left Catcub before. On a normal day, Catcub is used to constant presence, laptime by day, reassuring company all night, and lots of cuddling. Catcub can not fathom what-all has gone so wrong in her peaceful life.

Instead, she is left with a random visitor three times daily. That’s 33 care visits from me in 11 days for 20 minutes apiece, totalling some 11 hours of together time. At each visit I sift Catcub’s litter pan, wash her water dish, top up her kibble, place treats in her treat mouse, play games with a homemade sock ball on string and other toys, talk to her, and hold out her brush while she gives herself a good grooming. It is striking how innocent these pets really are, how we humans are their entire world. It feels important to let Kitty see that she’s not abandoned, and that her little needs are met every few hours.

From Catcub’s astute point of view, the new visitor has an alarming penchant: three times a day said visitor will go away, locking the door and leaving Catcub all alone. Upon my arrival the cat is right on hand inside the door. When I step in, she will rush to her scratching post to show me how well she can tear right in to its rugged surface. Then she will face me and stretch out her front end to knead the carpet. Then she will tag along during the chores to tell me loudly all about her day. But when it’s time for me to go she will catapult over the furniture to beat me to the door, blocking the lintel at full length and instructing me to stay indoors and put.

Catcub is an extremely cherished people-meep, a petsome little smooch. She is avid for attention, tracking me with wide dilated eyes, lashing her tail. In a perfect world her ambition would be to bedeck me with pheromones and plant her nose up to mine and wrap herself around my neck like a fancy stole for unlimited whiskering and purring. This could be very jolly, except that a. I am allergic to cats, and b. any kind attention makes her even more distraught when it is time for me to go.

There’s another wee complication in the mix. Normally she enjoys chasing Beloved Owner hither and yon, giving friendly nips and swipes out of sheer enthusiasm. It’s all meant in good fun. It also calls to mind episodes of the YouTube show “My Cat From Hell.” Cat behavior expert Jackson Galaxy presented cases of cats who began mysteriously tackling their owners and hanging on with a four-paw claw wrap and tooth grip. During his house calls, Jackson advised that these cats were simply suffering from pent up energy combined with abandonment issues and separation anxiety when the owner had to be away. Jackson brought peace and calm to these households by implementing successful solutions. These included extra exercise and enrichment opportunities such as a tall running wheel, outdoor harness and leash for long walks, a hired cat visitor to stop in for regular quality time, and so on.

Jackson’s empathy is inspiring especially during his initial home assessments, when he cheerfully presents his hands and arms right in harm’s way to test just how distressed the cats might be. (Spoiler Alert: They are generally very distressed.) But for me, living with lymphedema means that I can not afford even the most affectionate cat bite or cat scratch, so these 33 visits to Catcub mean suiting up. It’s the usual compression hose and jeans, plus surgical scrub pants (worn down off the hip, so that they dangle over the ankle), plus thick ski socks and boots and two sets of house keys and a visit / task checklist and an N-95 mask. On the first few calls with all this cat caboodle I also tied brown paper grocery bags around my shins. For carrying the litter bag directly outdoors to their landfill bin each evening, it makes an eye-catching ensemble.

Luckily, Catcub is not a cat from hell at all. She is a gray tabby punkin of cuteness. It’s just that she is distraught about the absence of her owner, and growing adhesively bonded to me. This is why I pet her only by holding out her favorite brush. For departures I walk sideways, one small paused step at a time. While approaching the door I also dangle the sock ball on string between us, as she is conveniently distracted by the sock ball, and is more conveniently rather afraid of it. Just before opening the door I gently toss her treat mouse a few feet away so she will pounce on that while I slip out.

Yesterday over the home hazmat suit I added my shin-length rain slicker. The slicker deflects not only cat hair but the entire cat. Catcub is still lamenting and weaving around and leaping on furniture in attempts to get up against my face, but the swishy slicker keeps her two feet away. She still lets me brush her, and today she actually curled up in a ball on my lap while I concealed most of me under the slicker. We do what we can.

20 visits down; only 13 visits left. Better go suit up.

Ok, that’s really keeping up with Mrs. Wing, and even that is only a misty abstraction. There is no foreseeable prospect of keeping up with the Wing Family, whose favorite greeting as I come trudging home after work is “Mary! Have you had dinner?” That’s the alert for a sizzling plate of food, or a basket of harvest from the garden. Here are just a few highlights that they’ve shared with me in the past week.

Another tribute to Fish Mint. They planted some in my garden to beautifully fill in a bare patch after purple potato harvest.

Freshly foraged Cornelian Cherries, or Cornel Mas

Lovingly cultivated red raspberries, and golden raspberries too, grown in pots at the kitchen door. These were the first sweet mellow raspberries I have ever tasted. What a revelation. I could never fathom why people pay good money for fuzzy bird gravel wrapped in acid, but these berries are simply fantastic!

Purple potatoes. Last winter some knobbly wire tips started poking out of the ground in my potato patch. What the? But then Captain Wing explained that their cold-stored purple potatoes had started to sprout, so they planted them in my area. Wellsir, last week these small plants turned yellow and wilted. I was going to grub them out, but they disappeared. Presto — Mrs. Wing had harvested the lot, then handed over the whole grocery bag worth. Let’s review this word problem: They donated the potatoes, they planted the potatoes, they guessed correctly that edible potatoes were afoot and ready (Huh? Here I figured we had to wait until November!), dug them up, cleaned them, wrapped them in a large gift bag, then concluded that “Oh, these potatoes must belong to Mary!” and to my chagrin and surprise handed them over. Tonight I cooked up a batch of them to keep on hand in case smoke season kicks in this week. They’re terrific; tender but substantial, packed with good solid starch.

In other news, Angelina has a visit this week from her daughter Kalia (short for Philokalia, Lover of Spiritual Beauty). Both women have careers intervening in extreme human medical emergencies, and have the reflexes and wits and tough love that comes with the job. All year the neighbor klatch has heard many stories about Kalia’s accomplishments and character, which like Confucius she displayed from birth. Knowing that on early acquaintance my own personality comes across like a bowl of cooled farina, I felt intimidated about meeting Kalia in person. How would her impressions of me advise Angelina’s friendship? But within minutes Kalia and I hit on a topic of mutual girl interest (to wit, how Barry Marshall nailed down the etiology of gastric ulcers by swallowing a beaker of Helicobacter pylori). At that moment it dawned on me that maybe she and I were doing okay.

To celebrate the 4th of July, Angelina and Kalia took Bingo and Super Pup out for a good romp of ball fetching for paw-eye coordination and social enrichment. Then they left the doggoes at home, and went out for dinner and to view the recreational detonation of explosives.

Bingo is a docile but sensitive soul prone to nervous starts and firework panic. There were already amateur bangs going off near the street and fire trucks wailing past on small brush fires here and there. So an hour or so before sunset I got the bonnet bee to go over there and take Bingo for another walk to shake off some nerves before the organized municipal ruckus.

Bingo was never so glad to see me. I never never give the dogs treats or games or fun of any kind, but right then he didn’t care. He was waiting right at that door with no fuss about clipping on the leash, and off we went to salute fire hydrants and trees all around the block.

Dog owners from all over were out in force, catching a promenade before sunset. We all stopped in solidarity to let the dogs sniff each other’s delicates while we exchanged caring questions and stories about how our big and little fellas reacted to deafening racket. After some contemplative time petting the various heads and untangling the leashes, we swapped good wishes and went our ways. Bingo was such a good lil egg, trooping along right next to me all serious and earnest about sniffing his way around his turf. At 16 years old he’s lost his hearing (or as one of our sympathetic pre-K neighbors expressed it with sweeping hand gestures, “He is so old, he is tired now and DONE with listening more!”). But the vibration of isolated booms still made him try to flee, until he noticed that we humans were not afraid at all. He was still eager to finish up with hydrants and trees and get home. There I sat for a bit to keep the dogs company. Bingo nestled right up to my feet. With each boom and bang he would raise his head and look at me, and I would keep stroking his back until he put his head down again.

On Sunday I hopped off the bus after Orthodox Liturgy with bilingual service book in hand, and was happy to run into Seth on the street. He was taking a break for once from managing a produce department and nationwide vegetable supply chain and deliveries and a crew of stockers plus hordes of customers who shop during business hours of 5:00 am to 1:00 am and who are in and out of their right minds. He was working fiercely hard to coordinate the perishables for 4th of July, so I didn’t tarry or take his time.

But first thing next morning I stopped by the grocery to bring him some of Mrs. Wing’s cornelian cherries, and was pleased to have hit upon a fruit that Seth hadn’t tried before. “What are these cherries?” he asked, tasting one. “Are they like Montmorency?” To me, the cornelians are simply delicious in a unique unexpected way. But it’s edifying to see a real expert try one with genuine sensibility and awareness, letting the flavor chime at a whole palette of taste sensations. “Interesting!” he said. “Must research these.”

Then he turned to his crew with an announcement. “Mary reads ancient Greek!” he called out to them. “I caught her with the book on Sunday.”

“But I’m sure not coordinated enough to stock or handle those carts there without causing an accident,” I assured them. “That’s more essential to civilization and quality of life.”

[Mrs. Wing’s Fish Mint, Houttuynia cordata, is blooming outside in her herb patch.]

On Thursday at dawn, before work, I was down at Seth’s produce aisle.

   “Mary!” Seth exclaimed, maneuvering a massive tower of fruit crates on wheels. “Our Saturday shopper! What’s with the Thursday visit?”

   “Outa greens, Seth!” I held up two bunches. I’m always especially happy and a little shy to see Seth, who is gorgeous and fit and fast moving and brimming with optimism and chlorophyll-based vitality. (Why don’t you try asking him out, Mary? I did, years ago, suggesting that I join one of his birdwatching hikes. My idea just left him baffled, so now I stay out of his way. I’m still all smiles when he talks to me.)

   “You?? That explains the sense of urgency,” he reasoned, with his signature flash of smile. “Don’t be the only one on your block running out of mustard greens!”

Today, two days later, at dawn I headed for Seth’s aisle, the place to be at 6:30 on a Saturday morning. Seth was racewalking two empty industrial carts out of the cooler, but spotted me right away as always, and we hollered greetings over the avocados.

This time at the mustard greens there was a young man deliberating over the display. “Don’t want to accidentally touch them all while prying out just one bunch,” he explained.

   “Like a pickup stick game,” I agreed. “But with greenery.”

We wrapped our respective foliage and tucked them in our baskets, then gave each other a second look before turning away.

   “Derek??” I said. “Apartment 34-B with the snake plants and Ebbie the windowsill cat.”

   “Wow,” he said. “Yes. It’s been ten years. Or more. How’s the old building? I miss the neighbors.”

So I told him about our counterculture klatch, the single moms who team up to care for each other and the kids and dogs. “We had a party just this week,” I said. “One of the girls was in a recital, so we had to celebrate and make sure she felt special. Single moms and kids need each other.”

Well. That struck home hard with him. He gave me some rapidfire smart sensitive schooling on how many fathers get marginalized in their own households, edged out and made to feel increasingly dispensable and inept until finally the home life fades to pieces. He shared a little of his own story about a sincere marriage pulled apart by the hard and blameless ways that life is life. He was still in shell shock, by the sound of it. So there we were, 6:40 a.m., waving greens at each other in this intense head-to-head exploration of family structures and how society lets former partners flounder in free-fall.

   “Marriage is the bravest voyage there is,” I affirmed. “People deserve credit for even launching out on that ocean, and yes, no question, there are men getting shipwrecked too. Only we don’t see them! Where are the klatches for the single dads? Do they get to live upstairs and downstairs in a whole flock of other fathers who are out on their own? Do they make a point of buddying up? Do they ring each other’s doorbells every day with a pan of hot buttermilk biscuits? Do they rehash their relationships over drinks and hugs and a few tears? Do they text each other to say ‘Hey, your dog’s barking; you want I should go over and walk him?’? When one of them has a night class, do their kids run upstairs and knock on a door and say ‘Dad’s at school; can I do my homework up here tonight?’?”

   “No, nothing like,” he said. “Gosh. Those women sound amazing. That’s so eighties.”

   “Or sixties. Or fifties. Ricardos, with Fred & Ethel running in and out. AND men deserve that too! What encouragement do they get, to build support like that?” I described the “The Braiding Bunch: Dads on the Front Lines of Style,” about single fathers who meet regularly to swap tips on how to brush and style and braid their daughters’ hair.

   “Where are those men?” Derek asked eagerly. “Your building?”

   “No, it’s a CBS News story with Steve Hartman.”

   “When you see the women again,” Derek waved, “tell them stay strong. Stay strong.”

We picked up our baskets and wished each other a good day. Behind us, Seth finished stacking boxed salad greens at triple speed in precise pyramid formation. With a thoughtful glance at us he wheeled the carts into the cooler.

On a morning walk down a new street, here was one front yard with bright freesia flowers. The garden patch had an old metal astrolabe-style globe as a weather vane. And what a lucky angle and composition: a storm cloud was coming on fast, blotting out the sun and framing the picture. (I had to crop this narrow, to cut out the streetlights and traffic signs.)

If the sky were clear and smiling, the view would just not be the same. The yellow freesias and the ray of sun looked especially appealing because of the weathered black metal, and the dark squall of rain.

There is a popular message (certainly among people of faith) that a sunny personal outlook is a hallmark of good character and maturity, and a good indication of solid belief in God. But some of us are just more aware of and affected by the darker clouds. Then what? Do we look only at sunshine and turn our back on the rest? If there are dark clouds, why not at least put them to work making something beautiful?

After this photographic interlude, some friendly neighbors came up the street and greeted me. They were out walking their dogs. I’d seen the women a couple of months ago, and we’d had a good radiant chat. At the time I really wanted to ask for their names and their contact information, but didn’t want to look like a snoopy-boots about it. I was sorry to come away not knowing how to find the women again; with prosopagnosia, I’d never recognize them even if they walked right past. So, I went home and wrote them a note with my contact information, tucked it in a ziplock bag for safekeeping, and carried it in my knapsack all this time in case our paths ever crossed again. And now here they were! Luckily for me, they were the ones who stopped to say hello. So I got to hand-deliver my note. (It was fun to see someone purely by chance on an early walk and say “Here’s your mail.”) They texted me right away, and now we’re in touch!

The next step is to go talk to Angelina. She would enjoy meeting the women too. There ought to be a good time for everyone (and their dogs) to come over here, to sit out with some snacks and enjoy the garden.

On those early spring walks, often setting out a little after 5:00 a.m., I get to see and greet a whole new set of people who work nights — security guards, construction crews, groundskeepers. It’s good for the spirit to get out on a daily route, and to weave a new social fabric where new faces become familiar as little mooring touch points all along the way.

One municipal worker was a calm serene Vietnam veteran, at his post and his work rain or shine. I began stopping to share appreciative words about weather and nature. Those greetings became a positive fixture of the morning. He had such a craftsmanlike work ethic and philosophical outlook that a question came to mind: what small treat might he enjoy during a work break? Various home-baked goods came to mind. But one never knows what allergies or restrictions people might have with their diet. Finally I decided to get a bottle of sparkling water and some individual wrapped packets of Trader Joe trail mix, and anticipated with pleasure that small shopping errand.

But the errand had to wait. I missed three days of daily walks to keep my box-cut foot elevated as much as possible. I returned to the walking route this week, and missed seeing our trusty municipal colleague. Next day it was puzzling to see that the street sign nearby was now covered with small American flags, and a large bouquet of pink peonies. Next day on a tall piece of foam backing there was a large photograph of our worker looking proud in his uniform, next to a vintage photograph of the same gentleman back in his twenties, joyful and triumphant in a sports event. The poster was beautifully drawn and colored neatly with his name in large letters, with drawings of hearts and flowers. Next day, someone hung a magic marker on the poster from a rope. Soon the poster accumulated signatures radiating appreciation and love from dozens of people.

While I stood pondering all this, a city bus pulled over. “Where is he?” said the driver.

“I guess he retired?” I guessed, reading through the messages.

“Uh-oh,” said the driver. “What’s that little ‘R.I.P’ down at the bottom?” Oh gosh! Sure enough. “I hope it means ‘Retire in Prosperity,'” he said, wishing me a good day and waving goodbye.

Today my walk was much later. It was after 7:00 when I finished the loop and headed home. Now there was a cluster of elementary school pupils around the poster. One little one was anxiously dictating a message while his Mom wrote every word. The parents were out in full force, escorting their children to the poster. They stood together with other parents in respectful silence while the children exclaimed over the pictures and practiced reading all of the greetings. Then as each little group of children had time to explore messages and shared their impressions and feelings, the parents would shepherd them on to school to make room for the next group. One mom looked up at me. “He died,” she said, taking her child’s hand and setting out for school.

It was a tempting idea, to place a picture of that wonderful poster here. But this blog is anonymous. Besides, you already know who he is. You see him or her every day in your town. He is many people everywhere, taking care of routine business that keeps our lives clean or safe or lighted or fed. Like them, this quiet man probably thought of his job as just all in a day’s work.

If only he could be with us for one more day, to see these children, and to read and hear their words.

The latest recap of what’s happening in the dirt outside the window.

Tonight there were 4 green sweet peas in the pod, all ready to pick. That was the work of about 10 seconds, but think how much more fun it could be if I could get some helpful child to do the farm labor in exchange for the crop. A new neighbor is Miss Ariel, four years old and bursting with ideas and happy commentary about the world. So I asked Miss Ariel’s mom whether Miss A. might have leisure to help. Once Mom graciously gave permission, Miss A. rocketed off to her room in high excitement to select and put on a suitably pretty pea-picking outfit. Soon she reappeared in a fetching garden costume. Mom carried Baby Brother Tristan, and the four of us headed for the pea field 10 steps away. As expected, Miss Ariel proved to be a stellar hand at spotting green pods in green leafery. I held the stem while she did the picking. Our next chore was to train the pea vines to nestle their little tendrils around the poles where they belonged, rather than latching on to other flowers or one another. “If we let these sprout tips touch the pole, the plant will recognize that this is a safe place to climb, and tomorrow it will already be growing up this pole,” I told her. “They’re like children: with a little bit of guidance and good sturdy support, they can really grow and be healthy.” Miss A. was pleased to have a contribution to suppertime, one pea pod for each member of the family.

In other news, Mrs. Wing’s white daikon radishes and purple daikon radish plants are four feet high and flourishing in a splendid manner with, respectively, a show of lavish white blossoms and lavender blossoms. Captain brought home a big barrel for keeping thin red worms, and showed me the different screen layers of operation: lots of grass clippings and other mulch in the top layer, then fruit scraps in the middle layer packed with worms munching away (Captain reports that the worms really gravitate to melon), then below that the sediment, and below that a layer for worm “tea,” with a spigot. There was a good gallon’s worth of fruit scraps; he explained that it would all be eaten and turned into compost in about a week. The Wing family finally obtained one of the very coveted city garden plots to expand their base of operations. These plots have been in families for generations; they are well seasoned and lush, in a beautiful setting; securing a prized new slot can take years. The Wings happily went and cleared and dug up their new assigned patch, fertilized and primed the soil, laboriously dug up all of their Sunchoke tubers grown in pots around the house, transplanted them all to the new patch, and got them growing beautifully. Oh boy! A bumper Sunchoke harvest! Except that when they returned to view their new holdings, somebody had ripped out the Sunchokes and planted some other crop instead. The Wings could have gone to the garden committee and instead of raising produce could have raised some Cain. But they came home with their tools and a shrug and a smile to patiently start over with new Sunchokes in pots again.

Tariq and Darina are a radiant industrious couple who put in raised beds outside their door. The picture above and the picture below are only very small corners of their successful beds of all mixed greens.

Earlier this spring, last year’s crop of overwintered Tuscan kale was still hardy and strong with massive stems, just ready to bolt into flower. One day I stopped to admire the kale, and we got to chatting. Darina and Tariq were telling me all about their pet snails (they had interesting astute observations about the fascinating habits of these shelled creatures), and Darina noticed my admiration of their giant kale plants. She invited me to cut down and take away all I could eat before she cleared the ground. Well! For a couple of weeks I was out by 6:00 am, picking a big double handful every morning for breakfast. Tariq and Darina’s bedroom window is a good six feet up off the ground, and every morning I would hold the day’s pickings high within their view, and wave the greens in a vigorous salute so they could look outside and know that this interloper was me. I always finished off with a kale pompom happy dance of gratitude for their generosity before waving goodbye and heading indoors.

One day, when Angelina and I were walking the wolf pack, I pointed out the kale garden and their window. The conversation went off the rails something like this.

Mary: That’s Tariq and Darina. They said I could pick their kale! And they are such interesting people. Just the other day, they told me all about pet snails.

Angelina: That’s nice. Where did she have them done? (Note the stellar extraextravert people-personality. Anybody else would have said “Why should I care? Why are you telling me this nonsense?”

Mary: Who?

Angelina: Pat.

Mary: What?

Angelina: Where did she have them done?

Mary: Huh?

Angelina: Pat’s nails.

At that point I sat down on the ground gripping my sides, and was unable to catch my breath or stand up for the next three minutes. In our parallel conversation, what my ears heard Angelina say (honest, hand to heart, because she is after all a nurse who talks to me about medical stuff all the time) was “Pap smears.”

Angelina: When people see us together staggering around out here, they must think we’ve had a few drinks.

Mary: Around you, who needs a drink?

Angelina: We’d be terrific at the game of Telephone.

Mary: Like, “Let’s put these two at opposite ends of the line, and watch the fun.” We’ll be the life of any party.

Later I relayed all this to Darina. I also mentioned how much I’ve enjoyed breakfasting on her kale forest and doing the kale dance outside her bedroom window.

Darina: Dance?

Mary: Yes, at 6:00 a.m. Right here at your bedroom window. See? (Hopping about.) Like so.

Darina: Oh, I didn’t know. Mm…… Our apartment is next one over. That’s someone else’s bedroom.