consolationland

Pumpkins didn’t cross my mind much as a useful vegetable. Winter squash and sweet potatoes and parsnips have a more pleasant taste, and it didn’t make sense to replace them with something that for most of the year just comes in a can. But then this BBC article was interesting food for thought.

https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20231026-are-halloween-pumpkins-a-future-superfood

Apparently they’re a sustainable highly nutritious crop which thrives in even dry land and poor soil. In Bangladesh, they’re a food source thriving in the mini-deserts caused by flash flooding. They don’t require refrigeration for transport. The flesh is full of nutrients, and so are the seeds. In some heirloom varieties, even the leaves are edible. That inspired me to think about planting pumpkins next year; perhaps on the steep inclined poor runoff soil behind our property? Maybe the vines would anchor and improve the ground.

Meanwhile, I went out comparing pumpkin prices. At the bargain bin down at Fruit & Folks, my favorite produce open-air stand, there were a couple of sugar-pie pumpkins that were slightly dented but perfectly good. Trader Joe had a sale on canned pumpkin pulp, so I bought some for the winter pantry. After Halloween I’ll check the half-price shelf at the grocery too.

Yesterday I bought a small pie pumpkin to support our local Boy Scout troop. The Scouts and their families were just closing the gates for the season, but still had a few pumpkins left looking wholesome and nostalgic in the sunset.

Which of the pumpkins were best for cooking? I asked the farm manager. “We don’t know; we always sort the varieties and box them up with labels, but customers spend all day carrying and moving them around. They end up all mixed together, so we don’t want to guarantee. Your safest bet is a smaller round one; that is the most likely to be a pie pumpkin. All pumpkins are edible; but these big ones, for decorations and carving? Those don’t have a good flavor, and might be bitter. The largest ones are cheapest per pound. They are bought out by [A supersize nationwide food distributor], to bake into pies. How do they fix the flavor? By adding lots of CORN SYRUP. That is not your Grandma’s pie. But the customers buy it right up.”

It was troubling to think that after the stand closed for the year, these pumpkins might go to waste. But no, the staff explained that they will drive those pumpkins home and feed them to their cows. “On the farm when we pick the pumpkins to drive them here and some are too damaged to sell, we drop those in the cow pasture. Those cows come running! Pigs love them too. Pumpkin makes great feed.” It was heartening to hear about livestock in America who receive wholesome food.

But for sustainable dry weather planting, it’s time to learn more about this underrated vegetable before garden season next year.

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.