action!

You hate wasting your time fixing mistakes and pushing for corrections. You wish there had been no mistakes to begin with. You'd rather, oh, I don't know -- carry buckets of heavy stones maybe, anything rather than fix mistakes. For one thing -- you dump the rocks, they're gone. Mistakes and blunders have to go through stages of discussion, contemplation, negotiation and only then, maybe resolution. Nevertheless, this day belongs to fixes and I must say, I may be fortunate enough to have good resolutions to many of them.

First, the sweet corrections that have nothing to do with mistakes: Millie has her monthly grooming session (pretty much a requirement for poodle haired doodles). So, a wash and a haircut today, and she really does need a wash -- there's play grime in that coat! Too much mud licking and paw digging in a very wet yard! I'm excited to have her cleaned and trimmed.

Our breakfast, on the porch, lovely if a bit warm for her. Oh, and here's the thing about growing roses: I do not think there are many gardeners who grow these plants without intending to bring some blooms inside. Every once in a while.So, I snipped a rose for today's breakfast (even though most of my plants are babies and blooms this year are few).

 

Millie rests, then I take her to the groomers and do errands while Steffi's House gets her monthly cleaning. I'm excited about this as well. This is how it looks after the cleaning:

What? You do not see the difference?? No dust, no bits of grass, everything is sparkly clean (and it will remain thus until my pup comes home after a rain shower later this week)!

Now onto the real mistakes/corrections. And no, I dont mean the UPS return I take care of! That's a nothing issue. My big problem has been with the water run off from the new construction that is next to Steffi's House. I've written about it, so I wont repeat myself. In one short sentence, their water runs into my property and sits there. 

I called the city engineering guy and he listened sympathetically and promised to come over. I also texted the construction team rep and she promised to send someone from their buildings and grounds people as well. Both guys came and I spoke to each and here's the amazing thing: they both acknowledged that there is a problem and they both offered solutions. Relatively easy ones (moving the drain pipe and directing it away from my property), to slightly more complicated -- digging out a swale to catch the water before it pours into my yard. I still will have moved most of the roses out of the most troublesome spots, but this may indeed save the lilac and the hibiscus that are still there. Too, my moisture loving new plants for the area (don't laugh -- I ordered a Swamp Rose and also a Summersweet) may love damp soil but even those two are not fans of standing water.

So, maybe I wont need to sue anyone (and if you know me, you'll also know that I am the least likely person to sue because, well, I dislike spending time on fixing problems and do it only when absolutely necessary or someone is going to be hurt by my inaction)!

Here's another "problem" that I refused to fix: I wrote a book. I did almost no promotion for it. Actually, I did hire someone to work on this, but she came up with a goofy plan that I hated so I fired her and she gave me my money back and that was that. I did make one TV appearance and I attended one book selling event at the public library. I did not like doing either so I decided to just forget about promotion. If no one buys it/reads it -- fine with me. I'm not good at selling myself to anyone. (I don't allow money making ads on Ocean either for the same reasons.) Ed says I do not understand capitalism. Oh, I understand it alright. It's just not a good match, unfortunately, for my personality.

But then today I got an email with a book review of Like a Swallow. I don't know if it's AI generated. It likely is that. I don't really care who actually put these paragraphs together, I just thought it was a very nice synopsis, so I am going to print it for you here (skip it if you've read the book):

 

Like a Swallow: Looking Back at a Polish Childhood by Nina L. Camic is a compelling and deeply personal memoir that offers readers a window into a childhood shaped by two dramatically different worlds. Moving between postwar Poland and New York, where her father served as the Polish Ambassador to the United Nations, Camic recounts the challenges of growing up between cultures, political environments, and expectations while trying to understand where she belonged.

One of the book’s greatest strengths is its personal perspective on a significant period of history. Rather than presenting the contrast between Eastern Bloc Poland and 1960s America solely through political or historical analysis, Camic experiences these differences through the eyes of a young girl growing into adolescence. Her movement between a relatively closed and repressive society and an increasingly turbulent, staunchly anti-communist America creates an unusual backdrop for a story about family, identity, and growing up.

The memoir also captures the emotional complexity of adapting to constantly changing circumstances. Camic must navigate different social expectations, cultural environments, and ways of life while facing the ordinary uncertainties of childhood and adolescence. Her experiences with childhood fears, adolescent love, and the gradual disintegration of her family life provide an intimate emotional layer to the broader historical setting.

Another notable aspect of Like a Swallow is the way personal and historical change become intertwined. As the world around Camic changes, so too does her understanding of family, relationships, belonging, and herself. The story demonstrates how major political and cultural circumstances can influence the most personal aspects of an individual’s life, particularly during the formative years of childhood and adolescence.

The memoir’s journey ultimately leads Camic toward an unexpected place filled with new challenges and opportunities. This development adds another dimension to the narrative, transforming the book from simply a recollection of childhood into a story about resilience, adaptation, and the unexpected directions a life can take.

At its heart, Like a Swallow: Looking Back at a Polish Childhood is a story about growing up between worlds. It explores identity, family, cultural adjustment, historical change, childhood memory, and the search for stability amid circumstances that are often beyond an individual’s control. Camic’s personal account offers readers an opportunity to understand history not only through political events, but through the lived experiences of a young person trying to find her place within it. 

 

It came from someone who also invited me to participate in a book festival in Winston-Salem North Caroline this September. This was the reason given for showcasing it in one of those meet the author events:

 

We have taken a particular interest in Like a Swallow: Looking Back at a Polish Childhood and believe it would be a compelling title to feature at the Bookmarks Festival of Books & Authors, taking place September 26–27, 2026, in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

The festival brings together authors, readers, publishing professionals, booksellers, librarians, and literary enthusiasts, creating an environment where readers can discover books that offer distinctive stories and perspectives. Within that setting, Camic’s memoir provides a meaningful opportunity to introduce audiences to a personal account of childhood shaped by migration between cultures, political change, family circumstances, and the complexities of growing up.

Featuring Like a Swallow at Bookmarks would provide an opportunity to place the memoir in front of readers interested in memoir, history, family stories, cultural experiences, coming-of-age narratives, and personal accounts connected to major periods of social and political change.

The book’s appeal also extends beyond its historical setting. At its center is a universally recognizable experience: trying to understand oneself while adapting to circumstances that continue to change. Camic’s childhood fears, adolescent experiences, family struggles, and eventual encounters with unexpected challenges and opportunities provide emotional points of connection for readers regardless of their own backgrounds.

The contrast between postwar Poland and 1960s New York further gives the memoir a distinctive perspective. Readers are invited to experience these environments not simply as historical settings, but as places that shaped the author’s understanding of family, culture, identity, and belonging.

For these reasons, we believe Like a Swallow: Looking Back at a Polish Childhood would be a valuable addition to the Bookmarks Festival of Books & Authors and a strong candidate for Gallery Display consideration. Featuring Nina L. Camic’s memoir at the festival would provide an opportunity to increase its visibility, introduce her distinctive childhood story to a broader literary audience, and invite readers to discover a deeply personal account of growing up between two worlds during a period of significant historical change.

 

You might view my inclusion of these blurbs as a correction to the "mistake" of never promoting my book. Authors spend a huge amount of time traveling to places for book signings and such. I would see that as a painful way to spend precious time. As for participating in this particular book festival (which I have learned is the biggest book festival in the Carolinas) -- I would rather not go of course. I certainly wouldn't do it to sell Like a Swallow. But I have a tiny bit of me that is curious about such things. I give my attendance a 5% chance. Hey, that's better than 0%!

 

In the afternoon, I dig out yet another hole for yet another plant. But this is the end. There's not a new rose bush out there that I want. Nor any plant, for that matter. I actually drove by K&A Greenhouses and didn't stop. I do have 10 plants still coming from elsewhere -- some are replacements for shipping mistakes -- but I do not intend to look for more. Once those are in I'm done. [Well, until it's time to put in bulbs in October, but that's a whole other aspect of gardening. No one likes putting in bulbs. You do it for the reward of seeing color pop up in your garden come April. Not for the joy of gardening now.]

 

Millie is ready to come home in the late afternoon. There's my girl!

We have a quiet evening at home, thinking about other mistakes that take significantly more work to be corrected. Okay, maybe she isn't thinking about that at all. Hers is a simpler life of food, shelter, play, and love. She needs all four. Lucky girl -- she has all four.

 

 

with so much love... 

damaged?

The rains eventually stopped and though my bucket shows many inches of rain, and the weather people say it totaled to more than the whole rest of the month did, it honestly did not feel torrential or especially damaging. Just a summer rain. Farmers were cheering. As were most gardeners. 

I get up slowly to see what's what outside, though I already know what I will find: the front looks good...

 

 

 

The back? Less so. The squishy ground by the fence, holes filled to the top with water... 

  

 

 

... the newly planted roses moving around as if in raw cake batter if you stepped near them.

I sit down to breakfast, but do not feel the quiet serenity of the morning. Too busy studying my list of plants and trying to figure out what to move where.

New Dawn and Lady of Shallot are the two roses that are worst off. They really need to be moved quickly. Some of the others may or may not be damaged. I can't tell the degree of saturation. My new lilac and mockorange also need to be planted. I'll get to that today as well. And I have to rethink where to plant the Lark Ascending rose. She was supposed to go where I'm now moving one of the others. [You have to love those names! David Austin roses are all like that and some of the other breeders also tend toward the poetic. I'm looking, for example, at another rose that tempts me called "Lady of the Lake."]

I spend nearly five hours reworking stuff in the water-logged yard. The bigger issue is looming before me: the builders are responsible for directing water to the street or to drain ditches. Not to the neighbor's yard. All those years of teaching Property Law are suddenly coming back to me. It was always so theoretical -- other people's property problems. Water is a big issue as I'm sure you know. Too much of it, as a result of someone's manipulation, or too little -- also as a result of interventions. Yes, I can make a big deal of this, but do I really want to? And amass legal fees? Lawyers working on property claims charge by the hour. No contingency arrangements here because there are no big payouts. You sue to get the guy to stop flooding your land, not to give you large sums of money. Ed's advice is to start small. Try to mitigate the damage. Redirect the spout, that kind of thing. But I see that small adjustments will never give me a full resolution. Their property isn't saturated! It's graded to flow toward me. You're not squishing along if you step on their lawn (as I did, just to check it out). Ah well, I'll meet with the builders and see what they say.

(The less troubled roses outside the fenced yard...)

 

 

Millie comes home in mid afternoon. Julie tells me she played nonstop with the other dog there. I ask (with lots of ambivalence) if Millie would be happier with a playmate here. Julie answers with a hard no. Millie does best when she is focused on her person at home. She has a good off switch then and knows how to slow down when she is overtired. I wasn't really thinking of adding a pup. But it's good to know that both she and I are good this way -- together, just the two of us.

(at her watch post)

 

 

With so much love... 

August 1st

Most definitely, I'm living with the aphorism today "be careful what you wish for." Of course, farmers are happy. People who love deeply green lawns are happy. Gardeners who grow roses and discover that their plants are in a wet area due to a poor grading and compacted soil are not happy. It rained. And it rained. And it rained. And it's still raining this afternoon. I measured 3.5 inches (or 9 cms)  of rain (so far) in a heretofore empty bucket. The roses by the fence are squishy. Empty holes along the fence are completely overflowing with water. If I leave the planted roses in their place, they will die within a week.

I stayed up late imagining where I might transplant them, but today's inspection showed that some of that movement would be impractical. In doing frantic research on the internet, I also learned something about roses -- something I did not know. (It is always the case that if you embark on a new gardening plan, you are going to make some mistakes, even if you have been growing things, as I have, for close to 50 years.) Apparently there are three plants at the top of a list of ones that you should not place anywhere near roses: Tomatoes (I'm safe there), lilacs (oh oh...) and hollyhock (double oh oh). It's a question of nutrients and root competition. True, I did not choose the larger lilacs, but still, I'm taking this newly found wisdom  into consideration now as I draw up a new plan of what to put where. The hollyhock? It's a biannual anyway. I may have to shorten it's lifespan by a year and pull it out. I'll create more room for a moved rose. But just doing that wont do. I need to reimagine some of the beds and I need to do it quickly. 

*.    *.    *

I got up later today because of course Millie is not there to check on me. I noticed something: without a dog, I'm slow with everything in the morning. Slow to get up (not sleeping, but not rising either). Slow to fix breakfast. Slow to get on with the day. You could say that slow is good. What is retirement for if not for slowing down? But if you add to it the rain outside, you have yourself a very weird day, where you spend far too much time thinking and reading random stories on the internet. In other words, without a dog, I am a slacker who does not get things done.

Breakfast? On the reading chair, with only Millie's play pup for company.

 

*.    *.    *

We are celebrating my daughter's birthday today. It's always fabulous to do this (fabulous daughters call for fabulous celebrations), though I have to say, it's really disconcerting to have a kid who is 45 years old. Really disconcerting! 

 

(with her family and with sparklers which somewhat terrified the kids, who have seen sparks burn holes in surfaces where they land)

 

 

(time to bring out the tablecloth!)

 

 

Oh how I hope that her next 45 years are joyous, healthy of course, and full of love!

*.    *.    * 

Tonight, Snowdrop plays two characters in the Twelfth Night -- Antonio the sea captain, and Mary, a gentlewoman servant. The two characters make many appearances throughout and I'm impressed how quickly Snowdrop switches persona. And costumes! She has a total of seven costume changes to get through.

It's a wonderful and entertaining play and for me it brings back vivid images and feelings. from the summer of 1993, when both my daughters were in Twelfth Night -- same Shakespeare group, same Artistic Director in fact. The older one (who was then freshly 12) played Olivia, the younger one (then 8) played Feste. Lines came back to me throughout the evening ("some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them") and I was thinking how strangely exact a memory can be for some things, but not for others.

 

 

This is the ninth play for Snowdrop with this group and I marvel at how much poise this little girl has now on stage -- as if she were born to deliver the lines of Shakespeare (and occasionally Shaw).

(Sparrow used to be part of this group and so he feels at once odd to be on the outside now, at the same time that he is quite familiar with many of the plays; Sandpiper remarkably sat quietly for the duration. That's a three hour plus play!)

 

 

*.    *.    *

Millie, I am told, is having a wildly good time with her doodle friend. I'm glad. Tomorrow she returns to my quiet home. She'll need the rest! I will be so happy to see her!

with so much love... 

  

without question

Without question, the most significant aspect to this day is that it's raining. Was there even another July day this year with rain? July 2nd it stormed. I think that about sums it up.

The forecasters said the rain would come at noon. This means if I'm to plant, I better do it in the first half of the day. Millie and I were up at 6 and eating breakfast by 7.

 

Oh, puppy! You really are the most special little dog!

Because I have a very full day tomorrow, I'm letting Julie (from Happy Dogz, her previous babysitter) take her for the weekend. Were I to hand her over tomorrow, it would have to be early and I would have to drive out all the way to where Julie lives. But today, Julie can take her home straight from Happy Dogz, along with another doodle who is staying over for the weekend. Millie should be thrilled with having a playmate!

Me, I'm less thrilled at having her away from home. Yes, she goes to daycare three days a week, so I've surely been at Steffi's House (rushing to get things done) without her. But the knowledge that she is not coming home tonight weighs heavy on me. We do everything together, especially in the evenings, nights and mornings. Suddenly I feel the emptiness of a missing dog and it does not feel good!

Still, I have little time to think about it. I need to do my outdoor work because the drizzle is starting earlier than predicted. Ed comes over just to help with one especially tough hole and then I work the soils and put in two more roses and one mockorange.

You could say that the honeymoon -- where you think everything about your garden is absolutely brilliant and indeed perfect -- is fading. I'm starting to recognize the trouble spots. Yes, there's the rocky soil, but I thought I'd addressed that by digging out sizable holes to improve a large area around the root base. It appears that this will be insufficient. All along the fence line (where I planted half a dozen roses and two lilacs), the water from the rain is not draining properly. The holes still waiting for plants are filled with standing water from just a very light rain. This is terrible news for the roses. They hate waterlogged soil. (So do lilacs for that matter.)

I'm not sure why some areas of the parcel (but not others) are especially vulnerable to this, but I hate to think that my efforts to create a small rose garden will fail. (There's another spot by the garage that appears to have the same problem but there at least it's only a one rose issue.)

Ed points out that we've watched them level these parcels, compacting gravel and stone to make a buildable surface. So it's not even clay soil beneath some of the sod. It's however many inches (or feet for that matter) of construction matter. Stuff you put underneath roads and highways and apparently houses and their gardens. 

I may have to do some plant moving. 

 

(roses in places where water does not pool) 

 

 

Ed reminds me that for these graded parcels (I'm on a slight incline), having a solid base is important. The house wont topple even if some of my roses may suffer. 

By noon I'm done with digging and moving rocks. I still have six roses and two non-roses coming (some later today), but everything else is in. I come inside, bring out my sheep blanket, miss my little pup, and fall asleep. Yes, I am that tired.

 

In the evening Ed comes over. I make a light supper, we watch our show. I miss my dog, but Ed is an okay substitute for her. Or at least he takes my mind off the fact that she is not here! 

 

 

 

Tomorrow is August. How could that be?!

with so much love... 

Millie decides

It's a well documented fact that doodle dogs have a firm grip on the reins at home. They direct where the horse is going. If you think you are in control, let me gently suggest that you are delusional. 

Initially I thought it was a matter of training: doodle owners are dog-spoiled (their pups are loving and joyful) and they also tend to be preoccupied with their own lives, their jobs, their kids, so they don't attend to rigorous pup training. But then I took Millie to pup agility class. All dogs her age looked to follow the proper protocol. Their owners spoke to them, they listened. Not Millie. She was thrilled to be there so that she could chase pups and do high leaps in the air, exuberant, joyful. No treat in the world would rip her away from spirited play. I thought perhaps she had been with me too short a time. But she has now been with me for almost four months and she continues to delight in selective listening. 

Being a sweet pup who tags along happily after me at home, this doesn't lead me to despair.  I continue to insist on her sits and downs (it's a game for her and she likes games), and she comes running when I want her near me, not because she wants to obey my command, but because being near me makes her feel happy and secure. I can leave the gate open on the porch and she wont run off, because she prefers "next to mama" to just about anything else. But a run to my call does not happen because she feels compelled to follow my directives.

I'm learning to listen more to her conversation. A low rumble in her throat that sounds awfully much like a light growl is a typical reaction to things that are unknown to her. One might be tempted to get her to stop, since most people find even a quiet gurgle coming even from a small dog to be disconcerting, but getting her to stop is, I think, the wrong approach. Respond to the anxiety, not the offered pup language for it. If I cuddle her, her growly rumble becomes a low moan, dying in her throat. An explanation of sorts. Once reassured, she turns on her friendly switch, with a bark and a wag for emphasis. Do I like her chatty bark? That would be like asking if you like the fact that your child is passionate about learning to play the trumpet.

This morning, we had our lovely start to the day on the porch.

Two of the roses that came the other day are to be planted in the fenced yard (roses are not toxic to dogs), so I take my pup outside and set up the rose planting station: a bucket for soil debris, a bucket for mixing dirt with compost and fertilizer (opinions vary on whether to apply it at the outset; I'm going with the "yes" crowd), a bag of mulch (though still not the mint compost which has yet to arrive), a shovel, a pair of long gloves. In the early morning, it's shady back there, and Millie loves to simply luxuriously rest in the cool grasses. Being my pup, she is picking up a real flower love.

When she gets hyped for play, I toss her the ball.

All this works well and in one hour, I get the two roses in. But I do notice something: Millie is treating the fenced yard as her own play area. She loves going there, she loves pulling our her blankie from her little shade tent, she loves releasing her zoomies there. What she does not do is use this fenced yard as a bathroom. I thought it would be fabulous  to just open the door come winter and let her out to do her stuff. That's not going to happen. After playing there for an hour and a half, I have to take her for a walk to her favorite grassy strip where she routinely does her stuff. (She was quite distressed when we first moved to Steffi's House. She liked the house just fine, but the unfamiliar grass strips outside unnerved her. I almost wanted to take her back to Sally's block so she could relieve herself quickly, but I thought that might be too confusing, so we persevered and now she's fine here.)

Since the outdoor work is piling on (and I planted just two roses yesterday), I take Millie for a half day at doggie daycare. Playing with her friends is a better option than leaving her for a few hours inside. She would pout and protest the latter and she would let me know that I have messed with her equilibrium if I were to close the door on her crate and leave her there. Too, I have errands to run. A cake to pick up for the weekend. Compost to dump, soil to buy. The usual. 

I put in just two roses in the afternoon (but that makes for a total of four for the day!). I hit a rough patch with one of the holes -- yes it's dug out, to a degree, but I see nothing but stones at the base of it. I need to go further down and get them out. Hard work.

It takes a while and I definitely have a sore shoulder from slamming that shovel into the rocks. Still, it's progress!

I pick up Millie earlier today and I let her stay on the porch while I water all the front flowers. (She is okay with that!) I lost two plants to dry soil, despite the fact that I've been watering every few days. It's that hot and that dry here. I'm NOT going to lose more!

A day in the garden. A day with my pup calling the shots. A day of rocks and roses. All smooth you think? Yes, except for my dropping my dinner dish this evening, spilling everything on the floor. Would you eat a meal that landed at your feet a minute ago? No? You and I are different then!

Tomorrow is the last day of July. Typically I start to lose interest in gardening in August. Not this year! I'm still running at full steam out there!

with so much love... 

 

only two

I have the whole glorious day before me! Beautiful weather (though insanely dry this month), heavenly boost to the morning with my breakfast ritual...

A hug for Millie for surviving two weeks in her onesies...

 

 

 

And a trip to Happy Dogz, with Millie, leaping and raring to go play with her pup friends (I'm told she has many).

And now I have five roses that should go in. The holes are mostly dug out for them. Exciting!

But is it? For one thing, do I really have a whole day before me? I never have a whole day before me. If I looked forward to working with those roses, I must have been blocking the fact that I had a dental appointment at 9 (part two of this tooth saga and it will continue, because I come from a time and place where teeth were never given the stuff they needed to look American straight, white, and shiny. That appointment took forever! And I needed to do the weekly grocery run, because if not now, when Millie is in doggie daycare, then when?

Unpacking, putting away. So... maybe half a day before me? Not even. Working with roses is not like working with other perennials. You don't shake them out of a pot and slide them into place. And my roses are bare twigged but large. I learned to work with them wearing these.

And the holes need adjustment, and the soil needs to be mixed with the compost, and carrying soil back and forth and trimming broken twigs and finally placing them just so and then filling those very large holes, and finally watering them, very very slowly, for at least 15 minutes and yes, I see those drooping flowers nearby -- I really need to water those as well or I will lose them!

Two roses in. Say what? Its 3 o'clock already? Off I go quickly, so quickly, to dump compost, pick up dirt, dump cardboard, pick up corn and finally -- pick up Snowdrop. 

Well, I can look at it this way: two down and only twelve roses to go (not all are here yet). Well, and one lilac and one mock orange. So I guess the number remains stuck at fourteen. Make that fifteen. I ended up with another mockorange today. Maybe I'll work on putting them in on one of those days that seems so open on the calendar (but in reality, is really quite full), and maybe not even then because there's watering, which just sucks up any time I may have left over for gardening. 

We pick up Millie, I take Snowdrop home, Millie says hi to the boys, we go home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I take stock outside, and find that the soil is dry again two inches deep on plants that were just soaked yesterday, I have to wonder -- what did people in Giverny do this year, when temperatures repeatedly crossed 100F/38C? What did they do?? 

Flower growing is becoming a challenge. I am up for it, but only because I am retired and occasionally I do have a couple of hours to plant... two roses. Only two, but two it is.

with so much love... 

emotions

Someday, we will have evolved to unravel what's behind the full range of emotions that we experience throughout our lives. We are nowhere near that point now. On a personal level, I can say that each year brings with it yet another layer of insight, but I'm sure there's a lot more going on about which I haven't a clue. On the one hand -- who cares. There are deeper mysteries of the universe that are a lot more interesting and deciphering those may provide benefits to billions (to say nothing of allowing life as we know it to continue). On the other hand, we, the specks of sand that we are in this vast dessert that is humankind, have a meager few years to make something of our lives and emotions play a vital role in shaping our behavior.

When I was a very young adult still living in Poland, I thought that the American obsession with seeing shrinks and analyzing the psyche were all an indulgence that only people in a rich country would want to do a deep dive into. People in Poland stood in lines for toilet paper. People in America worried about emotional attachments. Sure, there were people who were seriously abusive and mentally unstable. The rest of us should spend time being constructive members of our communities and our families.

These days I'm much less inclined to brush under the carpet all the traumas, disappointments, infatuations that we coasted through in our childhoods and really throughout all our lives. Sometimes understanding brings with it a relief and a path forward. Perhaps thinking too much about our emotions is a waste, given our sparse understanding of it all, but then, how do we evolve if we do not think about that which we do not understand?

I read an article this morning in the NYTimes (this one) about the emerging theories behind limerence.  I'd never heard of the word before. I also read the comments (readers pick) that followed. Apparently, this was one of the most gifted articles from the paper that day (or this month?). People accused the author of engaging in pop psychology, noting that too many would gather around the watercooler admitting to their own experiences with limerence, not really understanding what lead them to that state (of obsession about another human being), too hastily perhaps releasing themselves from responsibility for behaviors that had at its roots a deeper foundation of anxiety, or abandonment, or distress. My reaction was -- well so what? At least they're probing for explanations. Maybe a few decades from now we'll all be grateful for all that pop psychology that propelled us to try to put labels to our wide range of emotions.

As far as my own life is concerned -- well, I certainly have been in love, I've had innumerable crushes on people, and then there were episodes of something I did not fully understand (and I still do not fully understand). And now here I am, finding a new way to look at them: limerance. (Read the article if you want an explanation of the idea. I'd do a poor job of summarizing it here in just a sentence.) Who knew...

All this tumbled around in my head during a beautiful morning breakfast on the porch. Humidity is gone, temps are reasonable,  flowers are gorgeous, puppy is sweet.

After that, I coaxed Millie into her crate and went out to dig some holes for roses that are about to arrive. Not for long though. For one thing, two of the places I'd picked were so solid and dry that I could not make a dent. I needed Ed and the pick-axe for those guys. (He came, he wacked. Thank you Ed!) For another -- my pup started crying pretty quickly. I think she'd be better off left out of the crate, looking out the window perhaps. But she has her impishness still coming through and one destroyed couch cushion is enough for me to think twice about leaving her unconfined.

As luck would have it, the holes that really need work are in her yard. I let her out and set to work there.

(she flies through the air, with the greatest of ease...)

 

 

So how many roses do I still have to plant? Well, 12, in addition to another lilac and a mock orange, out of which two were added late last night. It's the end of the season for growers and they all want to get rid of this year's stock. The sales are fantastic. And the selections are still substantial. Climbing or shrubs, all hardy to my zone, all disease resistant and repeat bloomers throughout the season. It's hard to delete the ads without glancing through them. What? Free shipping and 50% off? Only a few left? Okay, just one more. Then comes the task of figuring out placement. And of course, digging out the needed hole. I must have carried out a hundred buckets of clay and rock today! But talk about that sweeping feeling of contentment! It comes when you dumped your last bucket, washed up, grabbed a sparkling water and sat down. I'm flooded with relief, satisfaction, and yes, contentment. I got this part of it done. I earned my moments on the couch.

 

In the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop from her Young Shakespeare Players program. A dress rehearsal that went on for too long meant that there really wasn't time for her to come over for Millie play or reading. I did get to see her in her Twelfth Night costume ...

And then I drop her off where she is to be picked up by her dad, who was taking Sandpiper to his t-ball practice. Complicated arrangements! What did people do before cell phones and watches that jiggled when a message came through? 

 

Evening: five plants arrived on my doorstep. It took a long time to unpack them and here's something that I have learned in working with roses this year: those canes will draw blood if you do not wear long rose gloves while handling them! I'll plant tomorrow. And I wont be tempted to add more. I wont! At some point, my planting season really should end. Sit in the garden, enjoy what's there. Isn't that the point after all?

with so much love... 

  

two soft-spoken men

I wait for Evgenii. My phone says he arrived at 8:03. It is now 9:15 and he is not here. Did he creep up from the back? Millie would have barked. And Millie is definitely at peace, on the front porch waiting with me.

I'm about to give up. It's going to be a scorcher -- 97F/36C. If that is the temperature of our bodies (on the low side to be sure), why do we feel so hot outside? 

I'm about to give up on Evgenii, when I see a car pull up and a young man -- can't be more than 25 -- gets out, nimbly, quickly. You must be Evgenii... you're late. He gives the slightest nod, but says nothing. He's standing there with a shoulder bag and a tablet. Finally he says -- I follow you. In those few words, I here the Russian accent. I want to ask him -- why are you so young? Why did you leave Russia? But I can tell my questions would not be welcome. Evgenii is a man of few words. And when he speaks, you can hardly hear him.

Millie, on the other hand, is barking inside, furious that I did not set her loose on this newcomer. She does not recognize enemy nation states. She would have made friends! I ask him -- can I go in now? Again, a quick nod.

I snuggle with Millie. It's okay puppy, it's okay. 

I'm wondering if Evgenii ever killed anyone. War is war. You do as you're told, no? Hold on, do I detect the return of my childhood distrust of neighbors to the east and west of Poland? As for Evgenii, he's clearly a skilled computer guy. Would he be at the Ukrainian front were he still in Russia? I think so. But he is here, and he is using his skills to service the internet cable that we'd dug out yesterday. And he does service it, and he comes back to my front door, says -- "done," and then he leaves. No eye contact, no nod to the mesmerized by him Millie. 

Evgenii would make a good spy. Or assassin. Or, have I been reading to many crime novels? 

 

Millie's latest game? Undoing the velcro to the snuggle pup and taking out the little beating heart that's inside. She used to sleep with that pup. Now? Just a dismemberment challenge.

 

 

 

It's time for my pup to return to doggie daycare. Oh, is she happy to be let loose again! Julie writes me that she is super excited to see everyone, and especially her! I do a little tattling: before you say what a good girl she is, know that she opened up the zipper on my reading chair cushion and chewed up the insides. I have a feeling Julie just laughed. Millie makes people laugh. 

 

Dump compostables at the farmette, pick up a few lilies for my pitcher at home.

 

 

 

I come back and water the plants in the back. I'm not even sure all of them need to be watered. What they need is for it not to be 97F/36C outside.

 

In the afternoon I have an appointment with the endodontist. His first name is Andrew -- nothing Russian about the name nor the person. I remember him well from my previous visit: it was in the thick of Covid. I was sure he or his assistant would pass on the virus to me. Nonetheless, I had to check on a tooth. In the end he said it could wait. I was relieved, but at the same time, I found the visit to be so, I dont know -- meaningful maybe? Probably because we never went out, never saw anyone and especially not strangers, close up. Andrew (I do not call him that to his face) had worked for a children's fund that provided dental services in places that have a dire need for such care. He'd worked in Mozambique, India, Haiti. I could have listened and asked questions for a long time, but of course, that wasn't the purpose of my visit to the clinic. But now here I am again, having survived Covid, having moved three times, taken care of three dogs, having planted now coming close to 250 plants. 

There are people who have traveled far, maybe even worked in very impoverished countries and who would not hesitate to share their insights, to answer your questions. Andrew is not like that. He's a quiet guy who now takes care of his kids and a bunch of rescue dogs and really, though I was in that chair for 90 minutes, that is all I know about him. A quiet, thoughtful guy, who laughed when I said "we meet again, no more epidemic, but same president."

I have to say, dentistry has gone far away from the postwar Poland business model of "no pain, no gain."  Sitting comfortably, with N2O streaming up my nostrils, I thought -- this is a heck of a lot more comfortable than carrying buckets of stones, ripping up sod, or even watering plants in 97F/36C weather.

 

Millie comes home, for once tired and I'm sure well exercised. I missed you, little one! She responds with a lick and a smile. What, you don't think dogs can smile? You're so wrong on that.

with so much love... 

 

luxury

Would you like to play a game? Okay. List five things that you would enjoy tremendously, that you consider to be utterly luxurious, that you perhaps have done occasionally but maybe never at all. Got it? Now look at your list. Are you sure of it? Did it change over time?

Merriam-Webster  defines luxury this way: 1. a condition of abundance or great ease and comfort; 2. something adding to pleasure or comfort but not absolutely necessary; 3. an indulgence in something that provides pleasure, satisfaction or ease.

But isn't luxury like happiness? You often don't recognize it when it's there. You imagine it to be something that is fleeting and perhaps unattainable. It's that stage that you aspire to, that you work for, but with that fear that it's all in vain, because luxury belongs to those born to wealth and to power over your life. 

And isn't it true that luxury can be something that you once had but lost? Freedom to a jailed person. A home to one who is homeless. Democracy for those kept under the thumb of a despot. Time to a stressed working parent.

When I feel I'm in a state of total bliss, I believe that I've suddenly touched on luxury. There are the times of unusual creature comforts: an upgrade to a lie-down seat during an overnight flight. A massage with perhaps scents of rose and lavender. A room with a lovely view. Someone to clean the house once a month (more often, but that would be a state of guilt inducing ultra-luxury). But truly, near the top of my list would be sitting comfortably in a place with abundant flowers all around me, in good weather (broadly defined), with a milky coffee (a latte really), and a good book. Add a dog who is sweet and loving to the scene, with gentle music in the background, and I am in a state of bliss. 

So... sort of like this:

(she likes to join me at the table)

 

 

I love my young families, I love Ed. I love Millie! I'm thrilled that we're all reasonably healthy, that we have roofs over our heads and that the kids are being well schooled (in academics and in kindness). I'm happy when they're happy. On the other hand, if you ask me -- why work so damn hard at planting and tending all those flowers, at preparing what I regard to be a breakfast of the gods (granola, a rich yogurt, a bowl of freshly cut up fruits, honey, and of course -- milky coffee), why get up each morning with a bounce and a grin, well, it's because there are days that start like this. And when I sit down on that front porch and look out over the roses, lilies and dozens of other plants (to say nothing of the pots and a pitcher of famette flowers)...

 

 

... I really feel I've reached the summit. This is it: luxury.  Not a yacht (ugh, I hate boats anyway), not a villa with ten bedrooms and an equal number of bathrooms, not a Rolls Royce with a chauffeur (can't trust random drivers), not a stay at the George Cinq (I love Le Baume!). Not a loaded investment portfolio (earned on the backs of the poor), not jewels -- never jewels or designer anything. Not a swimming pool in the backyard (though a sauna would be fun I think), not fine art hanging on the walls (does that make anyone really happy? Happier than less expensive art?).  Just me in my shorts and t-shirt (that has a patina born of years of gardening) and flip-flops, with a small Ukrainian painting leaning on the mantle, sitting here on Steffi's cottage porch, looking over my (almost fully) planted garden, with time to read a book (Kate Atkinson's at the moment) and sip my warm coffee.

Total luxury. 

It is also a form of luxury to be able to call your sweetie and ask for digging help when it is 91F/33C outside and humid. Bliss it is not. I carry buckets of stone and clay out, Ed wields the pick-axe. But without his help, I would have tortured my way through this. And I would not have him look down and say -- I see the wire that runs here. You better call Spectrum. It's a coaxial cable.

But this wasn't marked! Or was it? I check my photos. It's off a few inches, but in the vicinity. Well, we didn't break it, but still, you cant just throw dirt over it -- it needs an inspection. Here's a lucky break -- it's the last hole I expect to dig in Millie's yard this year (where lines seem to crisscross under the soil).  Next spring, if inspiration strikes me to plant something else, I'll have the diggers hotline people come out again and I've learned to give the markings a wide berth.

(my roses in the back)

In the evening the young family is here for dinner. 

It used to be that I could cook up a storm, nurse a glass of wine, talk to my daughter, listen to the kids' stories, take photos left and right -- without batting an eye. These days I dont even think about the camera until we sit down to dinner.

 

 

I'm laser-focused  on getting the food on the table all at the same time. A simple meal, but there are 4 pots on the stovetop and one pan of food inside the oven. Oh, and Snowdrop's vegetarian dish in the microwave. So, no photos, despite the fact that everyone is awfully cute and yes, there's a large black dog under the table and Millie is climbing over him to see if anyone dropped some food. Photographic gems. But not for me. That Stoneman's corn cannot be overdone and some noodles need to have no tomato sauce over them and the chicken should be juicy but certainly not pink. 

When the young family leaves, Ed lingers. We were to watch our show, but I walked Millie past a very dry set of flowers outside, so I took out the hose for one last watering for the day. 

I deem Millie to be fit and safe for doggie daycare tomorrow. The funny thing is -- I'll miss having her always by my side, looking into my eyes to see where my thoughts are heading,. It's been a very beautiful set of Millie days.

with so much love... 

 

sheep blanket

If you live in Wisconsin, chances are you have a throw blanket for your couch. Nothing feels better in the dead of winter than a wrap thrown over your legs for that added warmth. It took me a while to find a good one. I find wool to be itchy. Fake fabrics in my opinion aren't warm enough. Cotton blankets are thin. Ed uses an old discarded comforter and when I lived in the farmhouse, I shared that with him. And eventually I found one that I like for solo snuggles: a heavy cotton one with sheep on it. The sheep are a visual bonus: they tell me "this is a warm blanket, even if you do reject our wool."

It's been a hot and dry summer, so of course, the blanket remained tucked away for future use. But this morning, I needed it. The temps dipped down to around 60f/15c and though that's quite nice for a summer night, we also got a significant cloud cover (but no rain), so that breakfast outside was... cold. I mean, not if I were to be clothed in sweatpants and warm socks. But no -- I was  dressed for how it's going to be in several hours (hot!). In shorts. 

I ate...

And snuggled and rocked my pup...

And then quickly retreated inside, digging out my sheep blanket to hurry up the warming process.

And Millie said -- what's that?? Can I play with it? Can I carry it around the house like all the other doggie blankets that I leave scattered hither and yon?

We didn't stay long arguing about whose blanket it is and what purpose it serves. Millie was morning-sleepy and I took this opportunity to put her in the crate so that I could do a quick errand run. First, to pick up Ed, then to dump cardboard, next to pick up a replacement flower (for one that was so puny it may as well be dead), and then the most important of all (which is why Ed came along) -- to visit Stoneman farms and pick up their first corn of the season.

Stoneman corn has a bit of a cult following. Yes, it is very good. Reliably so. Sweet, tender, delicious. But there's more to it: it's a family operation and (as I've written in previous years) the family is just adorable. Three generations, working together to give us a month and a half of delicious corn. 

They only sell directly from their farm and sometimes at out local market. They communicate and post adorable pictures via Facebook and it reminds you how nice Facebook can be if it doesn't go down that vile path of ads, and thoughtless garbage, and screaming slogans, and fake postings. I love their updates (and I love updates from other places and people too) and when I heard they were opening their stand this weekend, well, I was there. With Ed.

At the farmette again, he and I take a walk to assess my unseeded this year, overgrown meadows. The one in the peach orchard can be mowed down. The grasses took over. But the older one, the one in the new orchard, is reliably there still. It looks lovely next to the apple and pear trees.

 

 

 

Ed and I had scheduled a lunch at Tati's as well, and I took Millie out for that one. 

 

 

 

And then I juggled. My pup, my garden, my pup, my garden. I'm right here Millie. Just a second old girl, I'll be there shortly, yes, I'm right where you can see me, Millie, quiet! An ongoing conversation.

I got a lot done despite the Millie patrol. It would have even been a pleasant way to spend the day if I hadn't gotten some dirt in my eye and nothing, nothing helped get it out. Funny how a tiny speck of sand can drive you nuts for hours!

Millie and I make a good team. In her way, she helps move things along. And of course, the snuggles are wonderful. She still has that delicate puppy smell. I bury my face in her fur, she gives a tiny lick and we are content.

with so much love... 

days of dogs and roses...

An unbroken string of gorgeous days (though no rain means I spend a lot of time holding a hose), of garden plants, of Millie.

Ed asks -- when is she going to be like, you know, a normal dog that you leave at home and go about your day? I reply -- a little more each day. You can't rush a dog who just last week howled every time I stepped outside.

At the same time, I think I was overconfident about her transition to "normal dog that you leave at home..." Millie was charming this morning. We had a lovely hour (or more?) on the porch over breakfast.

She enjoyed a long snuggle on my lap...

Outside in her yard, I dug out a failed idea and transplanted it elsewhere. To a shadier spot. She was patient. Maybe a bit too lively! But overall a good girl!

I tried her in a tank top onsie for the hotter days. 

 

 

Cute, but not comfortable. Too easy to pull off. We resumed the regular onesies. 

She napped, I worked on some more plantings. All smooth. I took it a step further. I watered. The entire front garden. And I switched out some of the potted plants -- from rear to front and front to rear. Millie is not howling inside. She's reached a new level of maturity! I come back inside, satisfied. Until I find her on the reading chair. She has managed to open the zipper to the main arm rest cushion (never to be fully closed again) and is chomping away at the insides. Classic stuff you'd find in a video clip of a naughty dog. Millie!!! 

Dogs! I still haven't fixed the car seatbelt that Henry chewed up. Sadey was less of a chewer, nor was she an imp, she just shed like crazy. Millie? Prankster supreme. Next time she stays in the crate.

And from Ed again -- when will you be done planting? Actually by the end of the month. I'm waiting on a handful of roses. Everything else is in place for this season. But of course, there's ongoing maintenance. Of the pleasant kind. Today I cut off all spent blooms in the front yard. Deeply rewarding to be snipping again!  But mostly, my July days are a blur of Millie antics and of rose cultivation. I should have renamed my pup when I first got her. She should have been Rosie to match my big dive into that pool of flowers.

 

And tomorrow? Still on Millie patrol. Still planting, watering, weeding. Waiting for the last three roses to arrive.

with so much love...