a peek inside the fishbowl

I might be jinxing things but the squirrels who’ve been working over my planters every day seem to have calmed down a bit. It MIGHT be the orange peels, dryer lint, and human hair I dug into the soil, but really, who knows anymore.

I didn’t do very much yard work this weekend, just enough to make me feel like I accomplished something and keep things from getting overgrown.

I bought a clematis and it is not just alive, it is GROWING.

At one point yesterday I was sitting in the sun, a magazine in one hand and a beverage in the other, alternating between staring into the trees and watching birds come and go. It was heavenly.

What else?

We ate ice cream. And drank margaritas.
We fired up ye’ ol’ grill and ate outdoors. (I am a bit obsessed by this bean salad recipe right now.)
We had a few sleepless nights thanks to several local fireworks enthusiasts and one terrified dog (that would be Piper).
I placed an order at Canadian Tire and when I saw how long the line was for curbside pickup I turned around and went back home.
I went on a lot of walks.

–

Awhile back I promised myself that I would stop checking the Ottawa Public Health daily COVID reports, but I haven’t been able to keep that promise. Today, however, I felt hope instead of dread. I pray to the heavens above that people continue to make the right choices so we can get back to something that looks like normal.

Mark and I often play the “WHAT DO YOU MISS MOST” game. I don’t know why we keep doing it. One of the things I miss most are impromptu dates on a patio. I can’t wait for the day I can turn to someone and say “let’s grab a beer.” One things I’d really like to do this summer is bike to The British Pub & Cafe. I promise myself that I won’t take it for granted ever again. What about you?

Last year, during the first pandemic summer, I swore that This Was The Year we wrestled our garden under control. It has been wildly OUT of control pretty much since we moved in here.

I thought, FINALLY, we have time! We can putter and weed and water and divide and plan! And guess what, it didn’t happen. I realized that if it doesn’t happen during a pandemic when we do little but stay at home, it will never happen.

Gardening has revealed some deep truths about myself. (I have had ample time to think about this.)

I enjoy visiting the garden centre.

I enjoy container gardening, but only if the squirrels aren’t digging them up. I submit to you, Exhibit A, the little bastards:

I enjoy the fruits of my labour, but I don’t particularly enjoy the labour, especially when it requires me to draw upon my limited reserves of patience (which are always dwindling and depends on the day) e.g. weeding between the cracks of a patio.

I thought, after 22 years of living here, that I would slowly become the type of old lady who enjoys the meditative quality of yard work. Friends, that has never happened, nor do I think that it will ever happen.

Hostas are the perfect plant for someone like me. They are low-maintenance, don’t spread out of control, and are gorgeous. You buy a hosta, dig a hole, plunk it in, fill it back, and that’s it. I have a bit of a collection going on. I can’t seem to get enough of them.

I divided one of Mary’s hostas recently and brought it home. It’s my one gardening project this weekend (besides weeding everything in sight. Ugh. I’m tired just thinking about it.). The leaves are gorgeous. It is like a green green sculpture.

I found a place for it in the back yard that had a lot of lungwort, a patch hasn’t been doing well since our big lilac died way back. I was going to dig it up and toss it into the compost bin but I thought better of it and offered it to my local Buy Nothing group on Facebook instead. I gave it away to three people, which I am so happy about.

Everyone was very nice, and the last woman who came to pick it up today was so very grateful. She lives nearby, and is redoing her garden. Our lungwort will be a big part of it, which is kind of cool.

Maybe sharing plants is another thing I like about gardening! Perhaps I should host a hosta swap. Hmm.

Mark, the eldest daughter, and I were walking Piper the other night when a woman approached us. I thought she was going to comment about the weather (a common topic as people pass each other on the street around here!) but the conversation went sideways right from the get-go. And it wasn’t about the wind chill.

“So how do you like living in a POLICE STATE,” she asked. The look on her face suggested she was hoping we would commisserate. We pretty much stopped in our tracks. Then she made a comment about how the regular flu kills more people than Covid does.

I was tongue-tied. Mark took the direct approach.

“No,” he said. “No, it doesn’t.”

She balked.  “GO AHEAD AND DRINK THE KOOL-AID,” she muttered as she walked away.

There was more to the exchange, but my memory is not my friend today.

I yelled something, not at her, but directed at what she had just said. I released it up at the sky, just to get it out of me. Something about living a long life, but I can’t remember the exact words now.

It was such an odd exchange between strangers that it almost feels like a dream. Did it really happen?