Almost 46

When you read this tomorrow, I’ll be celebrating #46. My wish was to spend my birthday in West Virginia gardening for no less than 72 hours. Having started yesterday afternoon, I am well on pace. My feet are sore, my cuticles mustn’t be seen by anyone, I have various blisters and bruises and chapped lips, but I couldn’t be happier. Life feels simple. The work feels meaningful, an investment in future seasons and faith in nature and soil and the always march towards life.

I can hear the goat babies calling from some pasture. They got their two-month vaccines today and were absolute weenies about those, but I held each one close and kissed their barny-smelling necks and tried not to get a horn to the cheek. The vet and I scheduled Clyde’s castration for late May. No need for him to hump his sisters or cousin, y’all. I suspect that Rambo, our other castrated male, will be glad for a compatriot.

Oliver and his friends have taken great interest in this castration, perhaps for obvious reasons. Ol, Zaid, and Harold began discussing said surgery in February, and just a week ago, I again overhead them arguing the merits of banding versus surgical testicular removal. The surgery is quicker but risks infection during recovery; the banding is an uncomfortable 4+ weeks after which Clyde’s then-leathery-prunes just fall off in the field. Zaid is particularly horrified by the balls-in-the-field option. Oliver vacillates. I’m not sure about Harold. I have scheduled surgery.

Beverly is the friendliest of the kids. She would be held and petted all day if you wanted to offer her such. Clyde wants to be brave, but so far he can only comfortably let me scratch his head, which he kindly bows towards me when he’s feeling courageous. Skipper and Millie must be tackled stealthily from behind if you want any 1-1 with them. They are all precious, soft bits of magic jumping sideways down hills, atop any available stump or bench, and even, today, into the boys’ saucer swing.

Apple and her daughter, Beverly

Clyde is so handsome

Right now, I have a chicken pot pie from the farmers market in the oven, and two stunning woodpeckers are pecking at a suet slab. It is windy, windy, and the wind chimes are caroling. I am feeling my hours in the garden, and I am thinking of my mom and sister, aunt Renee, Nanny, and her mother and sister, all of whom love the land like I do, all of whom were and are strong women and gifted gardeners, all of whom inspire me as I turn and till and plow and plant.

You simply cannot beat the colors of spring, particularly the greens. One may think the largest Crayola box overwrought, but when you pay attention to spring, you appreciate the effort of providing as many accurate crayons as possible to try and do the spectrum justice. Ages ago, in anticipation of this birthday-in-the-garden plan, I’d placed orders from Rare Roots, Prairie Nursery, and Eden Brothers (my favorite online nurseries). All arrived on schedule this week and I came to WV awash in native perennials: lupine, penstemon, false indigo, liatris, various monardas (aka bee balm), anemones, and on and on. I did also order some annuals; despite my preference for things that simply return reliably, I could not find a summer complete without zinnias, cosmos, dahlias, and cornflowers. They are all such happy flowers, and even though dahlias are annoyingly high maintenance, they’re worth it in spades.

Today, I also thought of my dad, also an avid gardener. He and I are alike in many ways, and our willingness to pay attention and time to the minuscule in a yard is, perhaps, one of our greatest commonalities. He will hand-weed a one square foot spot for hours. HOURS. So will I. I was hellbent on making a pea-gravel walking circle today, and while I could have bought bags of gravel, West Virginia is completely made of rock. So, if I’m patient enough to sift through the “dirt” for bits of stone, I have all the pea gravel I need. This is, perhaps, one reason I am so damn tired today. Picking through “dirt” for tiny crumbs sounds downright North Korean, for pete’s sakes. I confess to enjoying it for at least five hours today, and no, I don’t know what that says about me. I don’t really care.

The thing about life is that if you pay attention, you come to deeply know yourself and what you want and absolutely don’t want or care about. I may absolutely get my nose pierced in the next two weeks because I have always wanted a little nostril stud, and although I know my parents will be horrified (and probably my kids, too), I feel like I’m probably halfway through my life, so really, who cares? I can always take it out. Also, I’m studying Ukrainian. Who cares if relatively few speak it and the alphabet looks utterly unknowable? The Ukrainian people are incredible fighters, they love their animals, and they are just so boss. I mean, did you read about this woman? I could not in any way find success with Swedish or Irish, but Ukrainian is beautiful and largely pronounceable, and the letters are like delightful brain-teaser doodles, and I’m not going to let Д or Ж or ф or even Ю do anything but make me happy. Slava Ukraini!

Another thing about life is that if you pay attention, you realize it’s really short for too many people. People who could be you on any given day. So, live it. Live your life. America is well on its way to becoming a psychotic, anti-woman Christian theocracy, so I’m gonna pierce my nose now, exhaust myself via perennials, keep sending money to Ukraine, and also give a ride to safe healthcare to any woman who wants it. #reprorightsundergroundrailroad

I am now full from chicken pot pie, and my god am I sore. Tom and the boys regularly note that I overdo it in the yard, but there is infinity more space out here than at home, and not one thing served as obstacle today, so really, I did overdo it. But that’s ok. The mark of a great day outside is when you blow your nose and dirt comes out, or when you take off your boots and socks and your feet are brown with earth. Both happened tonight.

I’m soon to be 46 and my double daffodils are spectacular, the baby goats are precious beyond compare and I hid a box of Samoas in a cabinet several months ago and they are calling to me. Life can be so hard. It can really break your heart sometimes. So, live it. Channel the elders and fly your flag and be kind.

PS at a much later time: Based on a review of my calls, I seem, this morning, to have confidently ordered a shit ton of mulch for delivery tomorrow. Hahahahahahaha!

Cold & funny

Ok, so on Friday, it snowed in our part of WV, and after a certain point of citizen population, street plowing sort of cuts out. The wonderful cat ‘n goat caretaker could not get here, and by mid-afternoon, I was slightly frantic about the animals. Ol was sick as all hell from his booster, so I picked him up early from school, dropped him at home, hopped in Tom’s car, which has 4-wheel drive, and hauled it up to WV.

Upon arrival, I found Lefty screaming frantically and the other 3 in various stages of distress. They could have been punking me for all I know; I AM that “sees puppy eyes on any being and immediately throws all amount of food and love their way” individual. The male cats seemed enormously happy to see me; the lone lady was calming licking her paws when I entered the barn.

Everyone got lots of extra food and love, and then I headed inside to enjoy a solitary dinner and attend a virtual book launch with Jamie Raskin. Mom and Dad were watching from Chevy Chase, and the entire time, Mom and I texted each other in such ways:

A few hours after we parted ways with Jamie, the power cut out in WV, and I was overly thankful for the ridiculously heavy comforter insert I’d bought for our duvet. I slept like a baby, but when I awoke, the inside house temp was 53 degrees. Mary, mother of god. Because I am perky AF when I’m out here, though, I peed, realized I could not flush the toilet because water pumps need electricity, and then realized I could not make coffee because of aforementioned lack of water and electricity. So, I bundled up in 90 layers and skipped out to the barn, the cats (who sleep in the garage at night) in tow.

Lefty started screaming, Rambo commenced neighing, Jemima (who, at this point, appears to be in late-stage-pregnancy-I-look-to-have-twins FUCK YOU state) glared, and Apple stared. I measured out feed as quickly as possible and threw myself into their part of the barn. The hay net was the saddest deflated balloon; upon inspection, I saw that purposefully or not, they’d bitten holes in it and gotten every strand of hay out. A hat tip to you ruminants!

Apple

I raced back inside, started a fire, and refilled all the bird feeders. Immediately, the backyard was an aviary. I nearly perished of delight. Cardinals, titmice, juncos, nuthatches, woodpeckers! And then, lo! Around 9a, the power was restored. Coffee! Heater! Toilets!

It is now 8:34p, and we have finally reached 66 degrees inside. Ol and Tom arrived in the meantime, and we all sledded, plowed, played, etc. Good stuff.

It almost felt like this had a non-nutritive cereal varnish on the bottom.

Whilst cold, I came across a few treasures that I simply must share with you because honestly? Who doesn’t need more laughter in their life?

478-2490; I have to click “forgot password” on the regular.

This is as good as Tweets get. A+

If you are celebrating Deplatforming Day, this one’s for you!

This is me a good 50% of the time. I LOVE this dog. The little paw and emphatic slam of the door!

And this is just genius. As I’ve said so many times since 2016, where would we be without comedy?
Abhor-Rent.

Thank you, boosters, 1/6

This evening after dinner, I caught Tom picking roasted potatoes off the sheet pan with his fingers and shoving them in his mouth. Long story short, yesterday’s post did not describe rare occurrences.

But, you knew that! You’ve experienced it, and I can’t thank you enough for filling my inbox today with such delightful notes of laughter and total understanding. They were the best sorts of hugs and friendship.

I also want to thank scientists, science, Dr. Fauci, Pfizer, quick decisions by the FDA and CDC this week, the Biden admin for urging quick delivery, and the Silver Spring Civic Center for the glorious fact that both J and O received their boosters today. We were in and out in 20 minutes, start to finish (including the wait), and both boys feel totally fine. Hallelujah!

I will add that while in the waiting room, both Beavis and Butthead alerted me to the fact that max capacity is 69. For the love of god, y’all.

Your notes and these shots were such bright spots in an otherwise pretty heavy day. ONE year since that horrible, violent insurrection. I remember it all so clearly. We’d woken up so happy that morning, after Ossoff and Warnock won in Georgia. And mere hours later, Agent Orange called his minions and gave them their marching orders. As the day played out, I became increasingly speechless and horrified. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt like I did on that day. Watching fellow citizens do what they did.

The violence. The entitled-yet-ignorant rage. The flags and the Big Lie and thousands of little lies and the military-grade cosplay.
The screaming and destruction and feces and Confederate paraphernalia.
The gallows and the broken windows and members of Congress pulling gas masks from under their seats and their staffs turning anything into barricades.
The guns and grenades and fire extinguishers and flag poles.
The flash bangs and the havoc. The joy they were all taking in all of it. The utter insanity of being not 10 miles from all of this and yet a world away.

I have family on both sides, mine and Tom’s, who remain trumpers. To this day. Today. Who still believe in the Big Lie and pretend not to know how to pronounce Kamala’s name and who will not, under any circumstance, listen to, much less ingest, anything that does not slip neatly into the glove of trumpism they’ve fashioned and sewn to their own beings. They have and will lose family and friends over their house of cards. They do NOT care what the truth is.

And that right there is the essential kernel of why I feel truly hopeless about the survival of American democracy. I have no idea how to un-brainwash so many Americans who continue to joyfully follow a greedy, stingy, grab-em-by-the-pussy imbecile who does not care for them.

One year later and no organizers, higher-ups, instigators, law-enforcement enablers have met consequence. Yes, yes, many participants in the insurrection are in jail and such, but they are the tail of the snake, a replaceable element that serves the writhing, causal, intentional, toxic head. Am I glad they’re crying in prison? Absolutely. Rot there forever you machismo toy soldiers who peaked in high school.

But what is essential for America’s survival is real accountability and real punishment. The 1/6 Select Committee is working hard, and I am thankful. I hope Merrick Garland and DOJ are doing something, anything. Hard to tell, even after that “speech” yesterday.

Hope. A desire for something certain to happen. The human spirit is remarkable and resilient, but so many are so tired and beaten down after the past 5 years and the pandemic and so little accountability and that 99% of one whole ass American political party continues to peddle the Big Lie and that people to whom I’m related do, too.

It’s a lot, y’all.

This article is worth a read!

If you missed VP Harris’ and POTUS’ speeches today, go find and listen to them. Righteous anger is healing.

If you’d like to read the verbatim responses to 1/6 by many a Congressional Republican last January, this thread is a hell of a damning compilation.

sad but true

If you need inspiration or a lift, go listen to anything Jamie Raskin has said in the past year. He is an incredible human and a remarkable, rare politician. I am beyond blessed to be one of his constituents. He has stood up for America and our democracy with all his heart every damn day, even in the aftermath of losing his son at the end of 2020. He is the epitome of a public servant, and we should all be grateful for him. His new book is out today, by the way. Unthinkable. Read it.

Image by Leah Millis, a senior photog with Reuters.