consolationland

Disclaimer: This pond scene is not a close approximation of today’s flu shot clinic.

In our fancy patient online portal, I clicked through the decision tree to book me a flu shot appointment. Sure, the local pharmacy offers them, but if I schedule through the portal then the shot can go in my permanent record, and my providers will see and won’t fret about me this flu season. Trick is, the portal lists all the local clinics in our agency except the real convenient one across the street from work. There was no evident way of adding that clinic to my list of provider sites. So, after typing a tech support question (how do I add this member of your franchise to the viewing page?) the team sent me a nice lengthy explanation sounding like a prepared chat reply, about how to open the portal and click through the decision tree to book me a flu shot.

Sigh. So at 3:10 pm I got out of my chair and walked across the street to the clinic registration desk and got in line. During the little wait, 15 minutes or so, all of us in the building could hear ear-wincing roars of distress from some small child in a back room. All we could do, clinic staff and patients, was abide there going about our business while the little gipper just roared to the ceiling. My heart went out to this poor baby being subjected to some scary procedure back there.

Then it was my turn at the Registration desk. We had to raise our voices to be heard above the screaming, but it was still a pleasant exchange. “Hello!! Say, here’s my ID and insurance. I’d like a flu shot. I’m a patient in the system, but can’t figure out how to add this clinic to the list in my portal.” The friendly staff member said “Well, then howbout you just step through that door and ask the nurse? Maybe she’ll take a walk-in.” Really? Wow! Sometimes there is no substitute for levitating out of your chair, logging out, and walking across the street to ask questions and find out stuff on your own.

So ok, at 3:25 I peeked around the corner. There were two nurses in a little office with, sure enough, a kind of popup flu season vaccine site. But the 3:15 slot had already been reserved for the howling baby, who was flatly refusing his flu shot. It was surprising to see that he wasn’t a baby at all. He was a strapping kid of five or so, sitting back on a chair and kicking his Dad’s stomach with both legs while demanding that Dad take him home without a shot. “Would you rather sit in Daddy’s lap for this? I’ll hold you,” said his father. But, no dice. Well, no one could restrain this unhappy patient from fighting. His anxious father tried to soothe, comfort, and apologize to his frantic son as the minutes ticked by. Finally Dad peeled his son out of the chair and hauled him out to the hallway for a gentle cuddle.

Now. This was not the common everyday occurrence of, say, a child with autism at the grocery store who is understandably overwhelmed by the fluorescent lighting, the random announcements and chimes shooting out of the overhead sound system, people with carts trying to navigate around crowded aisles. When one of these little fellas has an implosive incoherent meltdown, that’s different. My standard response is to catch the parent’s eye, and say “I wish I had a cool person to shop with!” Sometimes that’s enough to improve things. There is also the ploy of crouching on the floor at a safe distance and talking out loud about these fascinating barcode stripes on the shelf. What can they all mean? It must be a special language! Those stripes there mean tomatoes at 99 cents a can. How much is that an ounce? Is it cheaper than the tomato cans over here?

But that’s a child who is neurologically drowning and screaming for help. That seems different from a child issuing commands that he doesn’t want to get wet, and therefore everybody must get out of the pool (all while aiming full frontal blows at his parent).

The two nurses glanced over at me. It dawned on the three of us that maybe that 3:15 slot wasn’t going to be a wash after all. They opened the portal to my patient record immunization screen, and asked me a few questions about allergies and such. “Just so you know,” I told them softly, “When I get flu shots, I sound just like him.” One nurse gave me a long patient look. “You go for it,” she invited me, entering my data. “Ma’am, you’re going to heaven,” I predicted. “Don’t know about that,” she reasoned, preparing the hypodermic.

I unfastened a couple of buttons, pulled my shirt off the shoulder, stepped out into the hall and spoke to the kiddo. “HEY, look at this: I’m getting a flu shot. Come watch me! This is gonna be AWESOME!” Dad looked hopeful. “Would you like to go watch the flu shot and see what it’s like?” At this the boy just roared even more. “Oh… you’re afraid to watch,” the Dad said, giving him a sympathetic squeeze.

I went back in and sat down. “I’m being pretty good, you know. There better be a lollipop in store for me.” The nurse gave me my shot and applied a band-aid. “Well, you can help yourself to this bowl of stickers. I think you should take two.”

I took a colorful sticker at random, thanked them, went back to the hall, and announced to no one “THAT ONLY TOOK A SECOND. IT DIDN’T HURT AT ALL. AND, I GOT A FREE STICKER.” The boy paid no mind to me. The clinic closed at 4:00, so it’s not certain that he ever got his shot. But his mom gave me a grateful look: “You are very brave.” I buttoned my shirt, gave her a smile, and said “Well, I’m 67. That’s almost grown up.” Back at the office across the street I logged right back in, looked up the nurse in our hospital system directory, and sent her an email hailing her with praise and appreciation. We’re not allowed to mention religion in our email communications, though it is still evident that she’s going to heaven.

At home, one of my favorite smokers was out on the bench, enjoying the evening. I told him about the clinic. “It seems to me,” I said, “that by shielding and lulling that child for 5, 10, 15, 20 minutes and more, it was only prolonging his ordeal and holding him in his place of panic. When I offered to let him watch, I wanted to portion the task into manageable pieces and include him in cheerful community support. Maybe the parents could have asked for a saline injection for themselves too, to model the experience. Make it all a victorious rite of passage, complete with stickers. One time when I was little, Mom brought me to the doctor for a shot, and I locked myself in the doctor’s office bathroom. Mom told me in a very quiet Company Voice to open that door this second and get out here and SIT. Then she gave me That Look. From a Mom, The Look was worse than any shot. We were taught to respect doctors and do what we’re told. What about your childhood?” No need to ask. I knew perfectly well what he’d say next. “Would your mother put up with fuss?”

“Would mine?” He sat back with a delighted laugh. “A Mexican mom? Whoooa.”

The sticker in day-glo colors spells the word EXTROVERT. That gives me an image to live up to.

The band-aid is extra bright and very sparkly.

Our summer was dry and warm, 90 days with no precipitation. Then The First Big Storm was predicted for last Monday with heavy wind and rainfall. That means that the dry ground, full of air pockets, can be drenched so fast that tree roots grow loose and the taller trees, still full of leaves, can fall and take power lines down with them. We did in fact get a thorough deluge, two power outages, and a very wet week.

Before the weather blew in, the neighbors and I were in serious deliberation: What about Captain Wing and Mrs. Wing and their prized stand of Sunchokes? We didn’t know what day of the week the family would be back from their little vacation. Would the storm wipe out the whole patch of these thick top-heavy plants? Were we supposed to dig up the whole bumper crop in the family’s absence? Would the tender chokelets be ruined by flooding? Would the family be upset to return and see their prized armament of stalks beaten down, and the chokes rotted from the wet? I was all motivated to run out and start digging as the storm front grew closer. It was hard to hold off and do nothing. But some instinct whispered that perhaps I’d better leave it to the family. If there’s one thing we knew, Captain would have a plan A, plan B, and plan C. If his executive decision-making included reaching out to us for help, he would.

We’ve all been eagerly anticipating their return. What a happy moment it was a couple of days ago, when Mrs. Wing’s soft friendly voice called from their kitchen door. I started jumping up and down and hollering greetings, wishing it were appropriate to rush over and give her a bear hug. She had gifts all ready: a large bag of sweet ripe plums, and a gorgeous gift-wrapped tin of Moon Festival cake made with salted duck eggs and lotus seed paste. She also asked me to please wait a moment for what she was pleased to call “a slice of squash.” Then she disappeared for several mysterious minutes, while inside the kitchen there were sounds as if she were breaking cinder blocks with the side of her hand. While waiting I imagined that “a slice” meant a teacup portion. In Mrs. Wing’s view, it was this:

The egg (hen, not duck) is there for size perspective. This gold ingot of squash “slice” must weigh five pounds. A Clydesdale could wear it as a collar; I tried it on, and my entire leg fit inside all the way up.

Doubles as an attractive planter, too.

I can’t wait to cook it up. “Very sweet,” Mrs. Wing assured me. “Like chestnuts.”

Captain looked pleased to be back. He called me over to the raised garden bed four feet high, and on top of that the sunchoke row of plants six feet tall. “Look, all the way up at the top.” He pointed ten feet up to the sturdy saplings waving proudly all down the raised bed. The rain brought out a real surprise: yellow buds, all over the tops of the plants! “When those yellow flowers finish blooming, it means the sunchokes have grown and are ready to harvest.”

Well, that is the difference between an uninformed pessimist and an enterprising optimist. Here I was, afraid that the dry summer had left the chokes with no flowers and no crop, expecting that the family would be disappointed. But all this time they weren’t worried at all! They had faith that summer would be summer, and that Nature was right on schedule. Meanwhile we neighbors have been greeting each other with the words “Wings are back!” We are just happy they are safe home again.

August brought two full moons instead of one. Here is a picture of the second, or “blue” moon, seen over a water glass of fennel from the garden.

CatCub’s owner reports that now when CatCub watches out the window and sees me walking on the street, CatCub rushes to the front door and waits patiently for me to come in and visit her. This week she has me visiting three times a day while her owner is away. CatCub has started a new object permanence game to play with me. She waits for me to sit down with her cat brush. Then she stares at me from the floor. Then with a yip she leaps up and starts kneading my lap and purring, lashing her tail directly toward my eyes from pure exuberance. While I hold up the brush she decides how much of a brushing she wants, and for long, then leaps off my lap and hides. That way she’s in complete control, and that seems to make her feel safe. After hiding out of my sight for one minute, she pops out all ready for the next round. She can keep that up all day.

This morning, Melina was feeling some woe. Mom and Dad and Bernard, her baby brother, were all ready for fun at the playground. Everybody was waiting for Melina to hurry up and put on her socks. To their credit, they were going to give her all the time she needed to put the socks on by herself. But socks are tricky to put on, and the morning was getting hot. One sock was half inside out. The other sock had the heel upside down, facing up instead of down. Finally she sat down in the building lobby and had to start over; not only that, but she couldn’t find her water bottle. “Here it is,” I pointed out, finding it in the outdoor stroller. But no, that’s not the special bottle! Fortunately, Mom appeared with Melina’s special bottle; Mom had filled it full of ice as a surprise. Now after playtime Melina and Bernard could have nice cold water in their bottles. The sock battle was a victory, and the family headed out.

Later, Melina ran over to tell me about the playground. She found me sweeping the garden walk. “Whatcha doing?” she asked. “I’m on Rock Patrol,” I told her. “And now YOU can be a Rock Ranger too.” Naturally, she came closer to investigate this special offer. I pointed out some little rocks that were sneaking out of the rock bed and on to the sidewalk. “When Mrs. D. walks this way after supper, sometimes she steps on a pebble or rock. It feels shaky, and she’s afraid that she might fall down. We don’t want that! When I see a rock that got lost, I put it back home in the rock bed. You can too.”

Last week I arrived home from work, and in front of our building found an ambulance with emergency personnel just slamming the doors. Oh no! Which neighbor? I sprinted across the parking lot, and was 2 seconds too late just as the back doors of the ambulance closed. It felt sad to miss the chance to wish them well. And what if they had pets or plants to care for? Were they ever coming back? I know that curious interested ambulance-chasing neighbors are a real distraction and delay for paramedics and EMTs. So I only gave them an appreciative wave and got out of their way.

Fortunately, I already had two phone texts letting me know which neighbor it was, and we had a fast-moving group text consult on the spot. Who’s got apartment keys? Who’s driving to the ER right now to sit and be company? Who will pick out personal care comfortries and deliver them tomorrow? Who will watch for and take in the Amazon deliveries? In no time we had a good strategy. As one of them said “It takes a village!”

On the street outside the grocery store, Seth from Produce called to me with interesting news. He showed me a real treasure in the photos on his phone: a serendipitous forage discovery of a particular beautiful mushroom. It’s a delicacy in spectacular demand; I’ve never tasted one. Local chefs who take pride in signature local gourmet foods have assured Seth that they will welcome all he can find, at top prices. Through years of study and exploration, Seth has worked out a sense for the precise habitat and annual climate of these showy creatures. He was kind enough to divulge the whole list of conducive conditions, none of which I will mention here or anywhere. And now, as innovative people do, Seth is taking smaller specimens and painstakingly culturing the spores so he can add them to his home mushroom ventures. It was a real spirit lifter to share his enthusiasm for nature, and to see how industrious he is about raising and prizing good produce.

This afternoon I lugged and hauled the hose around and gave the Wing Family garden a good soaking. A passing neighbor, one famed for his hearty and antic sense of humor, said “Why Mary — that’s very kind! I didn’t know you had it in you. I think I’ll text and let Wing know that his garden is baked toast and everything is dead. You were fed up with all this field labor, and two weeks ago you went on strike. I’ll remind him too, that if ya make a Catholic woman angry, ya better watch your back!” He and Captain are friends from way back, so I invited him to send off tidings as he sees fit; far be it from me, to get in the way of male bonding. Meanwhile, their butterscotch dahlias are just flourishing:

In Mrs. Wing’s herb patch there is some kind of mystery bulb, putting up small flowers in delicate tones. It will be interesting to see her again, and find out the name of this little visitor.

We look forward to seeing them soon. Happy trails, Friends!

Dear Captain and Mrs. Wing,

You have way better things to do on the road than be reading this, but if you ever wondered “What is happening to our garden? Will it be there when we get home?” the answer is “Copacetically, sort of.”

Fish Mint is a real natural, merrily creeping all over and staying healthy.

Your little pots of herbs are fine too. Here is a delicate little onion cousin. Garlic leek?

But the important crop is your two beds of Sunchokes. (Readers a little younger might know them as Jerusalem Artichokes. Readers my age didn’t call them anything, because in the 50s they hadn’t been invented yet. We had just peas and carrots in little frozen cubes.)

Your chokes are tall and full of leafy growth on top, as seen here in Exhibit A:

However, I have not seen them put out any of their signature yellow flowers. What’s more, the ones in the raised bed look okay, but the row planted directly in the ground outside your kitchen? I hope you are not too disappointed. They are looking stalky, and the middle leaves are losing color. Their lower leaves dried up, so I crunched them into flutters and scattered them on the ground as mulch.

Why’s that? Probably because of our heat wave dome. That set in right after you folks left, followed by a weekend of wildfire smoke. Four of us neighbors took turns watering every day, but the ground would dry right up again. That soil outside the kitchen is baked down pretty hard. I dug it up some and scratched a kind of moat around the plants, and Angelina drove me to the nursery for some topsoil to spread around, so that holds the water a little better. Yesterday cloudy weather set in with actual soft rain, so that should help. You might look at these pictures and think “Gah! Why can’t you lot have the sense to just add some [potash / potassium / nitrogen / lead shavings / brown sugar].” Or whatever they need.

Scarlet Runner beans in pots: Same deal. During the heat wave their lower leaves fell off, and the lower pods didn’t mature at all. Some really large pods are still there near the top, but as you can see they are looking a little peaky.

I brought some large pods in the house for fear the sun would burn them up. Those large pods were mostly empty. Two beans started to sprout, so now they are in a dish of water. The other beans are drying here indoors out of the sun, and I turn them every day. Most are too small to grow or eat. There are only a few mature beans, but they are certainly pretty.

Fuchsia: looking good.

Tomatoes: are those plum, Roma, San Marzano, or what? By any name, they’re growing in clumps.

The gladiolas are gone now, but they were the hit of the year, and people on the street still stop me to give me all the misplaced credit for how lovely they were. There are still some giant dahlias in different colors, and those are a hit too:

In conclusion, here is hoping that you are not unhappy with us. After all your hard work in the spring and early summer, you trusted me to take care of things. Maybe you will come home and feel that the crop will not be your dreams come true. If that is true, I am really sorry. We sure slugged around a lot of water. The texts and calls were flying as folks sent bulletins back and forth on what-all they managed to water when, so it really brought people together and gave them something to talk about.

Maybe your important crop this year was neighbors, and how we look at your plants and think of you. We miss you. Have a lovely time, and hurry home.

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.”