We are renting a three-story Tudor which sits prettily on a small corner lot with a neat front yard and the back garden made private by dense vegetation between neighbors and a fence on the street side. Thick, tall rhododendrons block the front and side windows. There is an enormous white pine, an herb and flower garden, and a hot tub in the back. The driveway is very narrow. Since the dense hedge of sharp-leaved holly alongside it scratched my arms to ribbons on Day 1, I have decided street parking is the way to go.
It's a very different setting than at home, where we have a neighbor on one side, nothing but woods on the other side and behind, and a treed island in the circle between us and the neighbor across. Here, houses surround houses on streets laid out in a tight grid. Some blocks are charming, some shabby. Everywhere has sidewalks and bike lanes, low speed limits and lots of stop signs. (After a couple of weeks here the Bean asked me, "Mommy, are there really stop signs every 15 feet in this town?" I guess I had been grumbling about it.) The density is nice in some ways -- it certainly feels less wasteful than the acre+ subdivision zoning we're used to, and the neighborhoods have histories which if I lived here, I'd want to get to know -- but not so nice, in others. It's noisier, obviously. I really, really like quiet. I savor it, at home, and when I am home again I am going to savor it all the more.
It is strange, living in someone else's house, with all their stuff. We have settled in, but everything still feels not-quite-right, and we won't be here long enough to make it so.
The girls have been given the third floor as their play space; it's cool to play at the tippy top of the house, and by happy coincidence, that room has the fewest antiques. For a bedroom, they are sharing the one opposite ours on the second floor. They're doubled up in a queen bed. I wasn't sure about that at first, because they have very different getting-to-sleep and waking-up styles. At night, the Bean needs quiet, and the Peanut is almost incapable of quiet; you can guess who's the early bird and who's hard to roust. But they felt strongly about having each other close in this unfamiliar place, and with the other bedrooms on different floors from the master, this seemed the best option. It hasn't been entirely trouble-free, but working things out is good for them, and I think they'll treasure the memory of When We Shared A Room Even Though You Sometimes Drove Me Nuts.
We spend a lot of time in the back of the house, an addition to the original structure, which has a sunroom with the TV/DVD player, and a cozy library where we've set up our desks. Well, Mr. Sandyshoes has the proper desk. I am perching at a corner table. I tried out the desks in the other two studies (yes), but the wireless is strongest here and, well, I need those Daily Show clips to stream smoothly, damnit.
I am still not used to the noises this house makes, or the shadows cast by its big dark furniture and the foliage which seems in constant motion outside the windows. It is impossible to move around quietly through the main part of the house; every floorboard makes a deep squeak. In the darkness, I see movement where there is none, and hear sounds I can't identify from rooms with nobody in them. More than once, very late at night, there has been a kind of brushing sound from the main part of the house while I worked in the library. One night, with the girls long in bed, I walked by a hallway and a light was on that hadn't been on earlier. I turned it off. Next time I walked by, it was on again. The next night it happened again. This was, of course, while Mr. Sandyshoes was back in Massachusetts for a week. Were I easily unnerved, I'd have been pretty unnerved.
I miss my shamelessly huge home theater screen and sound system. Movie-watching is so awesome at home.
I miss the Atlantic; but I love the mountains and big national forests that are everywhere here, and the great Pacific right within reach.
I miss my pantry, clean, bright, and stocked to keep us going through the zombie wars if need be. Paradoxically, in order not to accumulate too much stuff here, I feel like I am shopping all the time.
I do not miss having a bathroom right off my kitchen. Having it down the hall is a really, really nice difference.
I have learned that I do not like dark cabinetry, half-ring dresser drawer pulls, or kitchen counters made of tile, but I do like a Tempur-pedic mattress, a gas fireplace, and a good radio in the kitchen. The kitchen radio seems an obvious thing, but I don't have one at home, and now it's on my wish list. Sadly, I have no hope for a Tempur-pedic of my own, as Mr. Sandyshoes hasn't taken to it. (I won't even comment on a gas fireplace. He wants a wood stove, and I hate them, and round and round we go, but we'll end up with a wood stove.)
He has taken to the hot tub, though, and what's not to love about that? Well, besides the electric bill. I'm not sure I could stomach that part of owning one myself, but as the nights get chillier, soaking in the heat under the stars makes not-quite-right feel just fine, for a while.
Showing posts with label the yard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the yard. Show all posts
Monday, October 11, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Leaving tomorrow
Packing's done... I think. I hope. There's room in the car if I've forgotten something, but it's a matter of time, now. I'm ready to get going, and don't want to spend the morning loading "one more thing" a dozen times.
Turns out everything I need to wear for four months takes up about three cubic feet. Remarkable. I don't know whether to be proud or embarrassed. I'm a simple dresser and I didn't pack anything fancy. Talking about this trip over dinner with some friends earlier this summer, they asked if I'd started figuring out what to pack yet, and if I was anxious about it. Nah, I said. What do I have to pack? Clothes for fall, right? And how complicated can that be, when all I wear is jeans, turtlenecks and fleece vests?
The girls are a little upset. I haven't taken this long of a trip without them before. I do get away for the occasional long weekend -- Mr. Sandyshoes is very good about accommodating visits to friends on my own -- but not for ten days. This time, when the girls see me again it will be on the other side of the country, after a long flight to a completely unfamiliar place, at the home of people they've never met. It's all feeling pretty momentous to them. Plus, their backyard is wrecked and the driveway's all torn up, and the deck is pulled apart. It must seem like a lot of upheaval. It seems that way to me, and I'm not 6 or 8 years old.
I've told them they can call me as often as they'd like, and say "where are you now?" and Daddy will show them on a map. The Peanut thinks it will be hilarious to call me before I've even turned the corner and ask me where I am. She is planning this and giggling. The Bean isn't finding any of it funny yet, but that will come in due time.
I drove around a bit today, saying a mental farewell to my favorite parts of town -- library, beach, pretty town center. When I return, it will be wintertime, and I'll have missed a Town Meeting (I know, the horror! but I almost never miss one, and this will be a biggie) and two elections (got my absentee ballots though), and many school committee meetings. It is probably for the best that I miss those latter, as I'm starting to feel more frustrated than is useful with all the goings-on of late. I love this town, but I fear the school district is being taken over by Bears of Very Little Brain, and this in a critical budget year. It'll be refreshing to spend time in a place where I know none of the ins and outs of how it's being run, and I won't be there long enough for it to matter anyway. I can stay in the loop online, of course, but it might not hurt to disconnect a bit, either. We'll see if I can manage it.
Right now though, the important thing to manage is not to stay up all night wondering what I've forgotten to pack.
Turns out everything I need to wear for four months takes up about three cubic feet. Remarkable. I don't know whether to be proud or embarrassed. I'm a simple dresser and I didn't pack anything fancy. Talking about this trip over dinner with some friends earlier this summer, they asked if I'd started figuring out what to pack yet, and if I was anxious about it. Nah, I said. What do I have to pack? Clothes for fall, right? And how complicated can that be, when all I wear is jeans, turtlenecks and fleece vests?
The girls are a little upset. I haven't taken this long of a trip without them before. I do get away for the occasional long weekend -- Mr. Sandyshoes is very good about accommodating visits to friends on my own -- but not for ten days. This time, when the girls see me again it will be on the other side of the country, after a long flight to a completely unfamiliar place, at the home of people they've never met. It's all feeling pretty momentous to them. Plus, their backyard is wrecked and the driveway's all torn up, and the deck is pulled apart. It must seem like a lot of upheaval. It seems that way to me, and I'm not 6 or 8 years old.
I've told them they can call me as often as they'd like, and say "where are you now?" and Daddy will show them on a map. The Peanut thinks it will be hilarious to call me before I've even turned the corner and ask me where I am. She is planning this and giggling. The Bean isn't finding any of it funny yet, but that will come in due time.
I drove around a bit today, saying a mental farewell to my favorite parts of town -- library, beach, pretty town center. When I return, it will be wintertime, and I'll have missed a Town Meeting (I know, the horror! but I almost never miss one, and this will be a biggie) and two elections (got my absentee ballots though), and many school committee meetings. It is probably for the best that I miss those latter, as I'm starting to feel more frustrated than is useful with all the goings-on of late. I love this town, but I fear the school district is being taken over by Bears of Very Little Brain, and this in a critical budget year. It'll be refreshing to spend time in a place where I know none of the ins and outs of how it's being run, and I won't be there long enough for it to matter anyway. I can stay in the loop online, of course, but it might not hurt to disconnect a bit, either. We'll see if I can manage it.
Right now though, the important thing to manage is not to stay up all night wondering what I've forgotten to pack.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
T-5 days
I AM TYPING TO THE SOUND OF
Sorry. I am typing to the sound of concrete being jackhammered to tiny bits, and asphalt being broken up, and a deck being sawn apart. To build more house, we have to wreck some alcove, some driveway, some deck. Did I mention it's loud? It is freakin' LOUD.
Still, it is a different loud than the half-dozen 8 year-olds made during the Bean's slumber party last night. Good grief girls, why all the screaming? I just don't get it. One friend in particular is a screamer, and my Bean isn't far behind, and holy shit that sound cuts through my skull like a jackhammer cannot. I had them playing outside as much as possible. Mr. Sandyshoes laid out giant tarps across the dirtscape that is our once-lovely backyard (the new septic system went in yesterday and all is well with that) so that there is a bright blue path from the part of the deck that still exists to the girls' play structure. It
...what fresh screeching hell is this? Oh, concrete saw.
... anyway the big blue tarp making a path like that looks like some sort of water park feature. I kind of want to hose it down, dive off the deck and slide like a penguin out into the yard. Needless to say that would end in all kinds of sadness, but it's fun to consider.
The best part of the party, for me, was dinnertime. I made tacos. Kids are supposed to like tacos, but holy crow, kids are also picky eaters. How do they grow, these children that won't eat anything? Anyway, I heard a fair bit of "I don't like taco meat," but I had them try just a tiny scoop on their plates and lo and behold, it wasn't what they thought it would be, and they loved it, and both pleased and embarrassed me by saying so as much as they did. (My advice, which I know you didn't ask for: Don't cook with "flavor packets." They're revolting, filled with salt and MSG and who knows what the hell else, and really no less complicated than adding your own cumin and chili powder.)
Anyway the party went well -- playing outside, sand art on the deck, dinner, cake, presents. We were about to get set up for the movie at that point but the girls were being nuts and Mr. Sandyshoes, because he is awesome, hollered "WHO WANTS TO RUN AROUND THE CIRCLE?!" and dashed out of the house, and they all followed him around our little cul-de-sac a few times, and returned panting and quiet. Heh.
Then the movie (the chihuahua one, but at least I didn't have to watch it again -- pre-screening it was 91 minutes I can never get back), then bedtime. They were set up in the playroom. As the night wore on I made a couple of bad-guy appearances to tell them it was time to sleep, and as far as I can tell it was actually quiet from 11:30 until 7:30 this morning...
...just in time for the excavators to arrive. The noise didn't get really going until just before the parents were due to pick up their girls, so there was some unfortunate overlap. We hollered thank yous and good-byes over the pounding of the jackhammer. Since then I have had some time at my desk while the girls chill out to The Lion King. Any moment my old friend will arrive, frayed from a long drive in Cape Cod-bound summer traffic but hopefully happy to be here.
And yes, I'm still leaving in 5 days, but, you know, hakuna matata.
Sorry. I am typing to the sound of concrete being jackhammered to tiny bits, and asphalt being broken up, and a deck being sawn apart. To build more house, we have to wreck some alcove, some driveway, some deck. Did I mention it's loud? It is freakin' LOUD.
Still, it is a different loud than the half-dozen 8 year-olds made during the Bean's slumber party last night. Good grief girls, why all the screaming? I just don't get it. One friend in particular is a screamer, and my Bean isn't far behind, and holy shit that sound cuts through my skull like a jackhammer cannot. I had them playing outside as much as possible. Mr. Sandyshoes laid out giant tarps across the dirtscape that is our once-lovely backyard (the new septic system went in yesterday and all is well with that) so that there is a bright blue path from the part of the deck that still exists to the girls' play structure. It
...what fresh screeching hell is this? Oh, concrete saw.
... anyway the big blue tarp making a path like that looks like some sort of water park feature. I kind of want to hose it down, dive off the deck and slide like a penguin out into the yard. Needless to say that would end in all kinds of sadness, but it's fun to consider.
The best part of the party, for me, was dinnertime. I made tacos. Kids are supposed to like tacos, but holy crow, kids are also picky eaters. How do they grow, these children that won't eat anything? Anyway, I heard a fair bit of "I don't like taco meat," but I had them try just a tiny scoop on their plates and lo and behold, it wasn't what they thought it would be, and they loved it, and both pleased and embarrassed me by saying so as much as they did. (My advice, which I know you didn't ask for: Don't cook with "flavor packets." They're revolting, filled with salt and MSG and who knows what the hell else, and really no less complicated than adding your own cumin and chili powder.)
Anyway the party went well -- playing outside, sand art on the deck, dinner, cake, presents. We were about to get set up for the movie at that point but the girls were being nuts and Mr. Sandyshoes, because he is awesome, hollered "WHO WANTS TO RUN AROUND THE CIRCLE?!" and dashed out of the house, and they all followed him around our little cul-de-sac a few times, and returned panting and quiet. Heh.
Then the movie (the chihuahua one, but at least I didn't have to watch it again -- pre-screening it was 91 minutes I can never get back), then bedtime. They were set up in the playroom. As the night wore on I made a couple of bad-guy appearances to tell them it was time to sleep, and as far as I can tell it was actually quiet from 11:30 until 7:30 this morning...
...just in time for the excavators to arrive. The noise didn't get really going until just before the parents were due to pick up their girls, so there was some unfortunate overlap. We hollered thank yous and good-byes over the pounding of the jackhammer. Since then I have had some time at my desk while the girls chill out to The Lion King. Any moment my old friend will arrive, frayed from a long drive in Cape Cod-bound summer traffic but hopefully happy to be here.
And yes, I'm still leaving in 5 days, but, you know, hakuna matata.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
T- 7 days
I hit the road for the West Coast in one (1) week. This time next Thursday I will be as far west in Pennsylvania as I can stand to drive in one day. Hopefully at this hour I'll be settled in a comfy hotel room, watching whatever's on cable and browsing the AAA Tour Book for where to stay in Indiana the next night.
However, a few things have to happen before then.
We are having a new septic system installed tomorrow. A hulking yellow excavator sits silent in my torn-up back yard as I type. Early, early, early tomorrow, its cheerful operators will be here to get the job going. They will be cheerful because they started on it today, and it looks like they'll get a jump on the weekend. Their cheer may be short-lived, because Mr. Sandyshoes plans to ask them if the system really needs to be oriented exactly the way they've staked it. Cheer or no, I really, really hope the job goes well, because:
Tomorrow afternoon begins the Bean's slumber party for her 8th birthday (btw, the Bean turned 8). Six other eight year-olds will be here for a crafty activity (why yes, I am doing sand art again... the Bean requested it), dinner (tacos, again by request), cake and presents, a movie (God help me, this might turn out to be Beverly Hills Chihuahua; I tried to sell her on that new documentary about hydrofracking, but no dice), and then they will all go to sleep, right? RIGHT? Anyway sometime between now and when these friends arrive, I have to bake and frost a cake, take the Peanut to get a present, clean the house enough to have everyone sleeping (humor me) on the floor, and tidy it enough to have room for all their stuff. They leave after breakfast on Saturday, which is good timing, because:
A different excavator will be here by then, ready to break ground for the foundation to an addition to our house. Did I mention we have been planning an addition to our house? And that we got the building permit earlier this summer? And that having the building permit means we have to start work within six months? Which means we have to start before we leave for MWCU? Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Because that's just how we roll. Haha! In fact, I thought we didn't have quite enough on the calendar, so:
A friend from high school whom I haven't seen in 25 years is coming to visit Saturday - Sunday. It's going to be really great to see him. Sometimes, visits just need to happen no matter what else is going on.
So that's the weekend. I can only look that far ahead at this point. Beyond lies packing, and nobody wants to look there.
However, a few things have to happen before then.
We are having a new septic system installed tomorrow. A hulking yellow excavator sits silent in my torn-up back yard as I type. Early, early, early tomorrow, its cheerful operators will be here to get the job going. They will be cheerful because they started on it today, and it looks like they'll get a jump on the weekend. Their cheer may be short-lived, because Mr. Sandyshoes plans to ask them if the system really needs to be oriented exactly the way they've staked it. Cheer or no, I really, really hope the job goes well, because:
Tomorrow afternoon begins the Bean's slumber party for her 8th birthday (btw, the Bean turned 8). Six other eight year-olds will be here for a crafty activity (why yes, I am doing sand art again... the Bean requested it), dinner (tacos, again by request), cake and presents, a movie (God help me, this might turn out to be Beverly Hills Chihuahua; I tried to sell her on that new documentary about hydrofracking, but no dice), and then they will all go to sleep, right? RIGHT? Anyway sometime between now and when these friends arrive, I have to bake and frost a cake, take the Peanut to get a present, clean the house enough to have everyone sleeping (humor me) on the floor, and tidy it enough to have room for all their stuff. They leave after breakfast on Saturday, which is good timing, because:
A different excavator will be here by then, ready to break ground for the foundation to an addition to our house. Did I mention we have been planning an addition to our house? And that we got the building permit earlier this summer? And that having the building permit means we have to start work within six months? Which means we have to start before we leave for MWCU? Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Because that's just how we roll. Haha! In fact, I thought we didn't have quite enough on the calendar, so:
A friend from high school whom I haven't seen in 25 years is coming to visit Saturday - Sunday. It's going to be really great to see him. Sometimes, visits just need to happen no matter what else is going on.
So that's the weekend. I can only look that far ahead at this point. Beyond lies packing, and nobody wants to look there.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Midsummer
Well folks, summer on Cape Cod is lovely, and we've been having a thoroughly terrific time of it. Even I have not been especially grumpy, which is really something considering all the summer things I usually find to be grumpy about. Heat, humidity, crowds, mosquitoes, relentless searing sun, blah blah blah. There has been all that, but for whatever reason none of it has bothered me overmuch.
We've been to baseball games, town band concerts, and the County Fair; to birthday parties, family gatherings, and reading group meetings. We've swum in the tidal creek, the lake, the ocean, and various pools. We rode bikes in the town parade on the Fourth of July. We've had a steady stream of guests, and were even sad to see some of them go. We've had lettuce, peas and beans from the garden, cookouts, campfires and s'mores in the backyard and at the beach, and picnics at the Cape Cod Canal, where we watch the boats go by as we eat our dinner. We caught the tail end of the World Cup and dreamed of stretching the word "vuvuzelas" across two triple word score squares.
Oh all right, that last was just me.
Just this week, I have noticed that the girls are starting to get on each other's nerves earlier in the day than usual. That I'm feeling less inspired to mow different patterns into the front lawn, and more inclined to flip off tailgating assholes from New York and Connecticut (New Jersey seems underrepresented this year) than move aside for them.
I know I am nowhere near the end of my rope yet, but I can sense it starting to fray. Hopefully a total unraveling can be avoided altogether, or will at least hold off until Mr. Sandy is back in town. He is intensely, if not frantically (though I just heard him actually swear) preparing for a research cruise, and will shortly be away for a couple of weeks. My shopping list for before his departure consists of non-drowsy formula Dramamine for him, red wine for me.
Stay tuned.
How's your summer going?
We've been to baseball games, town band concerts, and the County Fair; to birthday parties, family gatherings, and reading group meetings. We've swum in the tidal creek, the lake, the ocean, and various pools. We rode bikes in the town parade on the Fourth of July. We've had a steady stream of guests, and were even sad to see some of them go. We've had lettuce, peas and beans from the garden, cookouts, campfires and s'mores in the backyard and at the beach, and picnics at the Cape Cod Canal, where we watch the boats go by as we eat our dinner. We caught the tail end of the World Cup and dreamed of stretching the word "vuvuzelas" across two triple word score squares.
Oh all right, that last was just me.
Just this week, I have noticed that the girls are starting to get on each other's nerves earlier in the day than usual. That I'm feeling less inspired to mow different patterns into the front lawn, and more inclined to flip off tailgating assholes from New York and Connecticut (New Jersey seems underrepresented this year) than move aside for them.
I know I am nowhere near the end of my rope yet, but I can sense it starting to fray. Hopefully a total unraveling can be avoided altogether, or will at least hold off until Mr. Sandy is back in town. He is intensely, if not frantically (though I just heard him actually swear) preparing for a research cruise, and will shortly be away for a couple of weeks. My shopping list for before his departure consists of non-drowsy formula Dramamine for him, red wine for me.
Stay tuned.
How's your summer going?
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
in which I am 40-something-else
Concluding Birthday Season I in our family, I am now Even Older. (Doesn't that get on your nerves, when people who aren't remotely elderly talk about how oooollld they are? Mine too. Get off my lawn. Oh wait. OK, I'll get off my own lawn. But I'll be back on it before long, as it's about to need mowing.)
I had a lovely birthday, which started when my lovely husband made sure I was exempted from getting our lovely daughters ready for school. I was supposed to sleep in, but was wide awake at the usual time. Grrrr. He also made me a beautiful chocolate cake, and I can now say definitively that the chocolate frosting recipe on the back of the unsweetened cocoa label is much superior to the one I'd been using for years. Riveting news, I know. But chocolate frosting improvements are always cause for good cheer.
I got a fishing pole and a Nancy Drew book and a Black Eyed Peas CD (the one with the boom-boom-pow song that I can't stop singing. "Them chickens jackin' my style," and stuff!) and Season 3 of The Muppet Show. The Muppet Show makes me very happy. Also a new novel, socks with flamingos on them, and a Life Is Good t-shirt. And it is, folks, it is.
In other news you will be delighted to know that I finally finished the biography of George Washington that I've been reading on and off for FIVE YEARS now. Of which more later. My cat-herding exemption was for one morning only, so I'd better hit the hay.
I had a lovely birthday, which started when my lovely husband made sure I was exempted from getting our lovely daughters ready for school. I was supposed to sleep in, but was wide awake at the usual time. Grrrr. He also made me a beautiful chocolate cake, and I can now say definitively that the chocolate frosting recipe on the back of the unsweetened cocoa label is much superior to the one I'd been using for years. Riveting news, I know. But chocolate frosting improvements are always cause for good cheer.
I got a fishing pole and a Nancy Drew book and a Black Eyed Peas CD (the one with the boom-boom-pow song that I can't stop singing. "Them chickens jackin' my style," and stuff!) and Season 3 of The Muppet Show. The Muppet Show makes me very happy. Also a new novel, socks with flamingos on them, and a Life Is Good t-shirt. And it is, folks, it is.
In other news you will be delighted to know that I finally finished the biography of George Washington that I've been reading on and off for FIVE YEARS now. Of which more later. My cat-herding exemption was for one morning only, so I'd better hit the hay.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Who's walking by
Thirty years ago (yes) I walked home from school sometimes with a girl named Beth. When I'd first asked Beth where she lived, she told me the name of the street (Hugenot Court, I still remember). Figuring out where it was, I asked her "is it a dead end?" meaning only to determine whether there were there any other streets off of it. "NO," she said, turning up her pale, pinched little nose in her pale, pinched little face. "I HATE it when people call it a 'dead end.' It is a COURT." Hm. Maybe it was just the once that we walked home together.
If only she'd said it was a "cul-de-sac," which I could've told her meant "bottom of the bag." I was better at French than making friends, in those days.
Today, I live at the end of a CIRCLE. The street is named _____ Circle. So don't ask me if it's a DEAD END. 'Round these parts, the signs say "NO OUTLET," anyhow, much friendlier and less judgmental than "DEAD END." And streets that are named ____ Circle or _____ Court don't have those signs because most people are smart enough to know that that's what Circle and Court MEAN. Take THAT, 12-year-old self.
I digress. Before I've even started, I digress.
Some people live in places where passers-by are too many to count; for others, a single passer-by would be the news of the day. Our little circle falls in the suburban in-between. We're part of a large-ish neighborhood of mostly year-round residents (a lot of Cape Cod homes, particularly in outer Cape towns, stand empty most of the year). Lots of walkers and joggers make our street part of their loops. Through the window over my desk, I've gotten to recognize the regulars. Here are some of them:
There is a guy about my age, fit, with a head of thick dark brown hair that bounces as he runs. I have no idea who he is but I look forward to his runs. I have started calling him George Stephanopoulos and imagining that he is listening to political news on his ipod.
There's an older man, a wiry fellow, brisk walker. He carries a stick, but doesn't use it for walking support. He just swings it around as he goes. We have some flowers planted at the base of our mailbox at the end of the driveway. As he walks past, Stick Man swats at the flowers. It doesn't seem a malicious gesture, more that he's swinging the stick around and he just can't help trying to make contact. He pulls the punch at the last second and hasn't yet wrecked the flowers. It's the kind of thing I would do, if I walked around swinging a stick.
There are several walkers who always make the rounds in pairs. One pair is of an elderly woman, her back bent at a severe, improbable angle, and a younger one -- daughter? niece? neighbor, companion? They go at a good clip. Bent as she is, that old lady can go. She'll be all right.
There's a young woman, lycra-sporting, ponytailed, who power walks laps around the circle, all the while SHOUTING cheerfully into her phone. Really, shouting.
There's a husky guy with a curly mop of hair and a mustache who used to walk/run around the circle with his German Shepherd. His run seemed more of a play-run than an exercise run. He'd do it in workboots. The dog would be loose and romping around all the yards, and when I'd see him I'd say to myself, dude, if that dog shits on my lawn, you will regret it. (Because I'm just like that about dog shit. Whack my flowers if you must, and I'll probably say "well. That was odd." But do not under any circumstances let your dog crap on my grass.) But the dog never did; he'd just run around like a maniac, following his owner, who'd sometimes run backwards to laugh at him playing. Last time I saw them, the guy was with a young woman pushing a stroller, and the dog was leashed. Happens to the best of us, big dog.
Sometimes my neighbor across the street will stroll around, drink occasionally in hand, to see what Mr. Sandyshoes has been up to. Mr. Sandyshoes is always up to something; it usually involves intriguing noises from power tools, and it's hardly ever possible to tell from the front of the house what it is. I felt for this neighbor. I knew how curious he must be, watching lumber being unloaded, listening to various noises of major projects underway. I was glad when eventually he just came up the driveway and said "so what's all this then?" Sometimes he scares the crap out of me by appearing out of nowhere while I am in my lawn-mowing trance, but that's my own fault. Mr. Sandy startles me just by coming in the room sometimes, and I'll jump damn near out of my skin, and he'll say, "hello, yes, it's me... I live here, remember?"
Who's walking around where you live?
If only she'd said it was a "cul-de-sac," which I could've told her meant "bottom of the bag." I was better at French than making friends, in those days.
Today, I live at the end of a CIRCLE. The street is named _____ Circle. So don't ask me if it's a DEAD END. 'Round these parts, the signs say "NO OUTLET," anyhow, much friendlier and less judgmental than "DEAD END." And streets that are named ____ Circle or _____ Court don't have those signs because most people are smart enough to know that that's what Circle and Court MEAN. Take THAT, 12-year-old self.
I digress. Before I've even started, I digress.
Some people live in places where passers-by are too many to count; for others, a single passer-by would be the news of the day. Our little circle falls in the suburban in-between. We're part of a large-ish neighborhood of mostly year-round residents (a lot of Cape Cod homes, particularly in outer Cape towns, stand empty most of the year). Lots of walkers and joggers make our street part of their loops. Through the window over my desk, I've gotten to recognize the regulars. Here are some of them:
There is a guy about my age, fit, with a head of thick dark brown hair that bounces as he runs. I have no idea who he is but I look forward to his runs. I have started calling him George Stephanopoulos and imagining that he is listening to political news on his ipod.
There's an older man, a wiry fellow, brisk walker. He carries a stick, but doesn't use it for walking support. He just swings it around as he goes. We have some flowers planted at the base of our mailbox at the end of the driveway. As he walks past, Stick Man swats at the flowers. It doesn't seem a malicious gesture, more that he's swinging the stick around and he just can't help trying to make contact. He pulls the punch at the last second and hasn't yet wrecked the flowers. It's the kind of thing I would do, if I walked around swinging a stick.
There are several walkers who always make the rounds in pairs. One pair is of an elderly woman, her back bent at a severe, improbable angle, and a younger one -- daughter? niece? neighbor, companion? They go at a good clip. Bent as she is, that old lady can go. She'll be all right.
There's a young woman, lycra-sporting, ponytailed, who power walks laps around the circle, all the while SHOUTING cheerfully into her phone. Really, shouting.
There's a husky guy with a curly mop of hair and a mustache who used to walk/run around the circle with his German Shepherd. His run seemed more of a play-run than an exercise run. He'd do it in workboots. The dog would be loose and romping around all the yards, and when I'd see him I'd say to myself, dude, if that dog shits on my lawn, you will regret it. (Because I'm just like that about dog shit. Whack my flowers if you must, and I'll probably say "well. That was odd." But do not under any circumstances let your dog crap on my grass.) But the dog never did; he'd just run around like a maniac, following his owner, who'd sometimes run backwards to laugh at him playing. Last time I saw them, the guy was with a young woman pushing a stroller, and the dog was leashed. Happens to the best of us, big dog.
Sometimes my neighbor across the street will stroll around, drink occasionally in hand, to see what Mr. Sandyshoes has been up to. Mr. Sandyshoes is always up to something; it usually involves intriguing noises from power tools, and it's hardly ever possible to tell from the front of the house what it is. I felt for this neighbor. I knew how curious he must be, watching lumber being unloaded, listening to various noises of major projects underway. I was glad when eventually he just came up the driveway and said "so what's all this then?" Sometimes he scares the crap out of me by appearing out of nowhere while I am in my lawn-mowing trance, but that's my own fault. Mr. Sandy startles me just by coming in the room sometimes, and I'll jump damn near out of my skin, and he'll say, "hello, yes, it's me... I live here, remember?"
Who's walking around where you live?
Friday, August 21, 2009
In which I am a spoiled brat about going on vacation.
It's hella hot and humid here, so guess what? We're leaving on "vacation" to somewhere hotter and more humid.
We'll be in the car for hours, along with everyone else on the eastern seaboard who isn't smart enough to stay the hell home and/or lucky enough to live somewhere not worth fleeing.
But wait, we DO live somewhere not worth fleeing. Everywhere is worse than Cape Cod, in the summertime. Everywhere. Why can't we go away in February? Huh? HUH?
Grrrr.
Things I would've done at home:
On the up side, I do love license plate games. And the people we're going to see are as totally cool as the weather won't be.
We'll be in the car for hours, along with everyone else on the eastern seaboard who isn't smart enough to stay the hell home and/or lucky enough to live somewhere not worth fleeing.
But wait, we DO live somewhere not worth fleeing. Everywhere is worse than Cape Cod, in the summertime. Everywhere. Why can't we go away in February? Huh? HUH?
Grrrr.
Things I would've done at home:
- picked more awesome cherry tomatoes from the garden, which is going gangbusters;
- maybe taken a drive to the outer Cape to check out the Hurricane Bill surf, which looks like it could be really cool.
On the up side, I do love license plate games. And the people we're going to see are as totally cool as the weather won't be.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Because I know you're wondering and just don't know how to ask...
...the new lawn mower works great. The self-propelled part takes some adjusting to -- it *really* wants to go forward. Even without that feature engaged, there's more resistance to backing up than there was in the old one. My previous lawn mowing strategy involved a lot of dragging it backwards instead of turning around. So it's faster, it's easier, it STARTS, hurray! -- but it'll take some getting used to as well.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
...and I turn 40something again. But we'll get to that soon enough. First, I have to cut down a tree.
When the weather turns warmish, and sane people start thinking of planting things, it is my instinct to get out there and chop stuff the hell down. I don't know why. To me, For a long while there had been a branch dangling from one of the scrappy useless oak trees along the side of our driveway. It hung right over where a person would have to walk if they were getting in the passenger side of a car parked where visitors usually park. My brother visits us every few weeks, and he and I usually go out to lunch or something while he's here. All winter long I've been walking into that goddamn branch. When decent temperatures finally arrived, I was ready to do some damage. That tree was coming down, baby. Why not just go after the branch, you ask? Well. One of my yard jobs is to rake leaves in the fall. If you're a tree in my yard, you'd better be lovely enough to warrant cleaning up after you. This one didn't qualify by a long shot.
So I went to get my favorite hand saw. We do have a chain saw, but it isn't working. No - it is stuck in Mr. Sandyshoes's particularly excruciating brand of should-I-fix-it-or-buy-a-new-one limbo. Also, I don't love chain saws overmuch. I know a lot of tree guys with too many scars and accident stories. Besides, I am not the most coordinated person you'll ever meet.
My favorite hand saw is now kept, along with all the other implements of outdoor destruction, in our new shed. Mr. Sandyshoes built the shed last year, all by himself. Not from a kit, but "from sticks," as they say. He is pretty damn cool, even though I am about to make it seem otherwise.
Once I got the shed door open (which, note to Mr. Sandyshoes, needs to be made easier to do), I could not get to the saw because there was a brand new lawn mower, still in its box, blocking the way. Now, regular readers may remember that Mr. Sandyshoes and I have had something of an ongoing discussion about a new lawn mower. In brief: although I agreed to do most of the lawn mowing, trying to accomplish it with a machine that doesn't reliably start or continue to run once started was beginning to piss me off something fierce. And as the old saying goes, ain't Mama happy, ain't nobody happy.
So - why the new lawnmower tucked away in the shed, without a peep from my lovely husband about having chosen and bought one? Why, indeed.
I pondered that some, as I sawed away at the object of my wrath and hauled it in pieces onto the brush pile.
When he noticed a couple of days later that I'd cut down the tree, and deduced that I'd have had to go into the shed before doing so, a look passed between us. Later that evening, I showed him this little video:
Nevertheless, the lawn mower appeared on my birthday. Note the sort of smooshed purple bow on the box (top right. It's a small bow. A humble bow. An am-I-sleeping-in-the-shed-tonight sort of bow).
My friends' opinions are about equally divided (and not along gender lines) between "Cool! A lawn mower!" and "What, he couldn't have got you some earrings?" Me? I'm psyched to finally have a new lawn mower (self-propelled! GUARANTEED TO START!), and frankly glad to have been spared the process of choosing one. I'm not overjoyed that my birthday coincides with the onset of lawn mowing season, but whachagonnado.And won't he have a nice Christmas the year the vacuum cleaner needs replacing?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Birthday Season I, in which the Peanut turns 5...
We have two birthday seasons in our little family: the Peanut and me in April, and the Bean and Mr. Sandyshoes in August.
Peanut just turned five (5!). She'd been counting down to her birthday for so long that I thought she might go nuts with excitement as The Day approached. There was some confusion as to how many days remained until her birthday party (which we had on a weekend), vs. her actual birthday. Either way, the counting was exciting.
The birthday party scene is changing a bit. We always just have them in the backyard and hope for the best, weather-wise. But before Peanut was in preschool, her birthday parties were as much for us as for her. We’d have a couple families over and hang out. This year she wanted to party with her own school friends. So I said what the heck, took a deep breath, and invited all of 'em. When the final count was in we were expecting some 15 preschoolers. That could easily have fallen into the "what the HELL was I thinking" category, but it turned out perfect. They all played outside like maniacs. Our swingset looked like something out of an advertisement, except that a professional photographer might've spaced the kiddos out some. We had a bit of a backup at the top of the spiral tube slide. Kids came flying out of that thing all afternoon and climbing back up for more. Mr. Sandyshoes had wiped it down with furniture polish beforehand. Heh heh. That is one fast slide.
For a party activity, I repeated my sand art triumph from the Bean's 5th birthday two years ago. Briefly: kids scoop colored sand into clean baby food jars to make pretty patterns. I highly recommend it for a party of kids this age. It’s just right for their coordination and attention span, it’s creative and fun, and gives them something pretty to take home. Boys and girls seem to love it equally. Most importantly, it’s easy to clean up.
Then it was cake time. Peanut had requested blue icing with pink letters, which sounds simple enough but sometimes I’m not too good at coloring icing. I ended up with something that looked to me like smoked salmon at the bottom of a swimming pool, but she thought it was cool, and that’s all that matters.
So, the weather was gorgeous, the kids were happy, the sand project rocked, the cake made the Peanut even happier than usual, and all was well in partyville. Ten seconds before the party was scheduled to be over, it started to rain. Incredibly perfect timing.
At bedtime, in the spirit of the countdown, I said, "Peanut, tomorrow is the last day you'll be 4!" -- and she just broke down in tears. Oh, did she ever sob, and I felt sad for making her feel sad. "Oh Peanut," I said, “you really liked being four, didn't you?” Nod, sob, sob. “Well,” I said, “the only thing that changes when you're five is the number of fingers you hold up when someone asks how old you are. Everything that's good about being four stays just the same when you're five.” And we counted some of those good things that won’t change.
Part of me is sad to see four go by, too. But she loves her childhood. That makes me feel really good.
Friday, March 27, 2009
What? Oh, yes. Fine, thanks. You?
We are alive and well and our shoes are still sandy, here at Noted and Blogged. Just... wandered off for a bit, I suppose.
Since my last post, the first crocuses have pushed up, we took the cover off the sandbox (and replaced it, when it snowed again -- sigh), and the Peanut and I have had the first picnic of the season, albeit a chilly one.
Spring is truly here, even if it feels like fits and starts just yet.
M. and the girls planted seeds for the vegetable garden, and the seedlings are sprouting. M. is shopping around for a mid-size rototiller; that is, he is in agonizing perpetual indecision over whether to go ahead and get one. In the meantime, I am supposed to be researching new lawn mowers.
The girls are taking swimming lessons, and we're looking for a piano instructor.
So, life. It goes.
How are you?
Since my last post, the first crocuses have pushed up, we took the cover off the sandbox (and replaced it, when it snowed again -- sigh), and the Peanut and I have had the first picnic of the season, albeit a chilly one.
Spring is truly here, even if it feels like fits and starts just yet.
M. and the girls planted seeds for the vegetable garden, and the seedlings are sprouting. M. is shopping around for a mid-size rototiller; that is, he is in agonizing perpetual indecision over whether to go ahead and get one. In the meantime, I am supposed to be researching new lawn mowers.
The girls are taking swimming lessons, and we're looking for a piano instructor.
So, life. It goes.
How are you?
Friday, October 24, 2008
Um... they're resting?
We had our first freeze last night, and the impatiens have given up the ghost. We had pots and hangers, boxes and beds of 'em; there was no point bringing them into the garage (or the shed! Mr. S. finished the shed!) to save them for the sake of another week. Annuals come, and eventually, annuals go. These are gone.
Backyard carnage. Sad, but wachagonnado.
Out of nowhere, the Peanut had a complete meltdown about it. She cried, and cried, and cried. "I don't WANT them to be dead!" she wailed, and "I wish flowers lived until PEOPLE were dead!" and "now every time Bean wears her doggie pajamas I'm going to think that the flowers are DEAD!" This last made me laugh, but it makes childlike sense because Bean's doggie pjs (pink fleece with a white scottie dog on the front) are for cold, cold nights - flower killing nights.
Holy cow, the kid was inconsolable. Neither sympathy, nor reasoned explanation, nor pointing out that the pretty purple asters are doing fine, had any effect. "I don't want to see them drooping!" she cried, surveying the carnage.
This from the child who last weekend single handedly pulled all the tomato and basil and pepper plants out of the garden by the roots - and boy was she proud of all that hard work! The tomatoes gave us all they had; we ate the last of them yesterday, and I was kind of sad. Flowers strike a different nerve, I guess.
Now it's 60 F and sunny, but she refuses to play outside. Too horrific.
I have parked her in front of a movie: Charlotte's Web, which is all about life and death and the natural way of things, more gently told than I can manage when she's wailing in my ear and getting snot all over my shoulder.
Backyard carnage. Sad, but wachagonnado.Out of nowhere, the Peanut had a complete meltdown about it. She cried, and cried, and cried. "I don't WANT them to be dead!" she wailed, and "I wish flowers lived until PEOPLE were dead!" and "now every time Bean wears her doggie pajamas I'm going to think that the flowers are DEAD!" This last made me laugh, but it makes childlike sense because Bean's doggie pjs (pink fleece with a white scottie dog on the front) are for cold, cold nights - flower killing nights.
Holy cow, the kid was inconsolable. Neither sympathy, nor reasoned explanation, nor pointing out that the pretty purple asters are doing fine, had any effect. "I don't want to see them drooping!" she cried, surveying the carnage.
This from the child who last weekend single handedly pulled all the tomato and basil and pepper plants out of the garden by the roots - and boy was she proud of all that hard work! The tomatoes gave us all they had; we ate the last of them yesterday, and I was kind of sad. Flowers strike a different nerve, I guess.
Now it's 60 F and sunny, but she refuses to play outside. Too horrific.
I have parked her in front of a movie: Charlotte's Web, which is all about life and death and the natural way of things, more gently told than I can manage when she's wailing in my ear and getting snot all over my shoulder.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
T minus 14 days: We go on vacation.
So we're leaving for the airport in an hour or so -- off to California to visit family and friends for a week. The days filled up quickly; we'll be scheduled, but not franticly (frantically?) so. We're staying in a hotel, which makes for comfortable downtime. That makes all the difference to me in a visit-intense trip.
Once upon a time, I was an extrovert. But that's a post for another day.
We're leaving behind a garden that is just about to burst full of gorgeous tomatoes. We've encouraged people to pick them while we're gone, but there are only so many any one person can eat. I planted grape and cherry tomatoes, as well as some Celebrities. There were a handful of the little ones ripe every day or so, until last week, when I started picking them by the bowlful. This is the bowl I picked this morning:
The bigger ones are coming ripe as well now. There will still be plenty when we get back and I'll be a sauce-making fiend.
Ooooooooh, saaaaauuuuuce.
We just had a quick thunderstorm go by, and now the sun's shining through the haze. There's steam coming off the street and drifting into the woods. It's hot and humid here. I'm looking forward to some cool dry California nights.
May get to blog a bit, may not. Have a good week, all, in any case.
Once upon a time, I was an extrovert. But that's a post for another day.
We're leaving behind a garden that is just about to burst full of gorgeous tomatoes. We've encouraged people to pick them while we're gone, but there are only so many any one person can eat. I planted grape and cherry tomatoes, as well as some Celebrities. There were a handful of the little ones ripe every day or so, until last week, when I started picking them by the bowlful. This is the bowl I picked this morning:
The bigger ones are coming ripe as well now. There will still be plenty when we get back and I'll be a sauce-making fiend.Ooooooooh, saaaaauuuuuce.
We just had a quick thunderstorm go by, and now the sun's shining through the haze. There's steam coming off the street and drifting into the woods. It's hot and humid here. I'm looking forward to some cool dry California nights.
May get to blog a bit, may not. Have a good week, all, in any case.
Monday, July 14, 2008
You grow it, I'll mow it.
Ah, mowing the lawn... or is it "cutting the grass"? Of course it is cutting the grass no matter which way you say it, but some people -- must be a regional thing -- don't say "mowing the lawn."
Well, I do. And, Saturday morning, I did.
Probably almost an acre of our lot requires mowing. When we moved here, it was mostly bare patches of packed dust and rocks, some nice moss, lots of fast-growing weeds, and a few sad scraggly patches of grass. Mowing that mess was a miserable job, but it had to be done in order to look slightly less awful. It wasn't one of those lovely maintenance-free Cape Cod moss and pine needle yards that need no upkeep because they are just as they ought to be. Ours had experienced at least a decade of benign neglect, except without the benign part. The previous owner didn't care much. Curb appeal was not a concern under Cape real estate market conditions in 2000, when sellers couldn't lose. Now, of course, you can't even think of putting a house on the market without considerable upgrading, outside and in. We thought about it a few years ago, when it seemed we might move to the west coast. A realtor all but laughed out loud at our perfectly functional but 1980s-pink bathrooms, which we have higher priorities than to redo for ourselves, but which wouldn't fly in today's buyers' market.
I digress.
Over the years, we (by which I mean Mr. S., but "we" by extension, because he would never have gotten to do all this stuff had I not been handling the gestation and subsequent general maintenance of our lovely offspring) have dug up, amended, filled, graded, turned, seeded, watered, seeded, watered, seeded, top dressed, seeded, and watered increasing areas of the yard. We worked from the house outward, so for a while it looked like there was just a bit right outside the door that was cared for -- a bit that grew annually, as if to give neighbors and passers-by some hope that someday it might all be presentable.
In our early discussions of where to plant grass vs. ground cover vs. shrubbery (if I owned a nursery, I would call it Roger The Shrubber. Tag line: "nothing too expensive!"), it became clear that we'd probably end up with a lot of grass, and that it would need cutting. S'fine, I said to my husband. You grow it, I'll mow it.
Well. That man can seed. So now we have nice grass (though not the bizarre emerald green kind that screams I CAN'T STOP! I'VE BEEN FERTILIZED AGAIN!), and I try to hold up my end of the deal.
Mowing appeals to me. Back and forth, back and forth, then when you're done things look great. I like yard work that turns off the brain. Mowing and raking are right up my alley. But sometimes Mr. S. wants the clippings bagged (what?). And sometimes our hand-me-down mower won't start. And sometimes, when it's very hot and humid, I mow for a while and then get to feeling dizzy and as if I might throw up. What a wuss! But it's true. I wilt and feel sick.
Then there are the mystery injuries. Last Saturday I did the whole front yard, no problem. Did most of the back, then had to restart the mower and it wouldn't. Somehow, in my increasing, um, vigor with the pull string, I really injured my hand. I didn't notice until later that my whole right index finger was purple. Later still, it swelled up impressively and I couldn't bend it. The swelling's mostly down as I type now, but it still hurts to touch it, and I can't use it for much. Braiding little girls' hair, for example, is out of the question, and using a pen or pencil is tricky.
We are investigating new mowers. I don't want a rider mower -- I think they call them "lawn tractors" now -- although it'd be fun to plow the driveway with it in wintertime. But we have a lot of trees to go around, and eh, even if we had space to store the thing, it just seems like too much. Walking back and forth isn't the hard part of the job, and now that it's grass instead of dust and rocks underfoot, it isn't even unpleasant. So, a regular mower it is. "So do we really need a 'self propelled' one?" says Mr. S. "Um, YEAH," I say. (Hello?!) "Why would we not want that?" The Sears catalog says the standard push mower is good for 1/4 acre or less. Even allowing for my being a bit stronger and/or less easily duped than the average Sears catalog reader, it seems crazy not to get a mower that helps more with the pushing part. Less time spent mowing means less gas burned, more time for other things. To me, it's a no-brainer. He shrugs, and comes up with his reason: "Exercise?"
I have no answer for this except, oh please. Ten years from now -- because let's face it, 1) nobody's getting younger, and 2) if the 275,000+ miles on our last car is any indication, we will not be buying another new lawn mower until the one we're about to buy absolutely craps out -- how angry am I going to be that for the sake of a hundred bucks or so, he was willing to turn a not-unpleasant chore into an ordeal, under the guise of "exercise?" The mere suggestion is maddening. I hope my silence conveys this.
Needless to say I will have to keep a close eye on the lawn mower purchase.
In the meantime, I think we've got the yard shaped up quite well, actually. We kept a lot of the moss, which I quite like. Grass, ground covers, shrubs and flowers have all been established in appropriate places. Mr. S. has worked really, really hard, and it shows. Most of the season, something is blooming. One of my favorites is a beautiful hydrangea that was barely a foot tall when we bought the place, and which took off like crazy as soon as we gave it some real soil to grow in. It has deep purple blooms:
Most hydrangeas around here are light blue, pink if you lime the soil. Every year, I forget that this one is purple, and when it blooms I say "wow, the hydrangea is really purple!" much to Mr. S's amusement. I think he looks forward to my expressing surprise about it. I must seem like the proverbial sheep that's surprised by the sunrise every day. Ah well, at least I entertain him.
Come to think of it, that's also the color my finger got, after the pull string debacle.
Well, I do. And, Saturday morning, I did.
Probably almost an acre of our lot requires mowing. When we moved here, it was mostly bare patches of packed dust and rocks, some nice moss, lots of fast-growing weeds, and a few sad scraggly patches of grass. Mowing that mess was a miserable job, but it had to be done in order to look slightly less awful. It wasn't one of those lovely maintenance-free Cape Cod moss and pine needle yards that need no upkeep because they are just as they ought to be. Ours had experienced at least a decade of benign neglect, except without the benign part. The previous owner didn't care much. Curb appeal was not a concern under Cape real estate market conditions in 2000, when sellers couldn't lose. Now, of course, you can't even think of putting a house on the market without considerable upgrading, outside and in. We thought about it a few years ago, when it seemed we might move to the west coast. A realtor all but laughed out loud at our perfectly functional but 1980s-pink bathrooms, which we have higher priorities than to redo for ourselves, but which wouldn't fly in today's buyers' market.
I digress.
Over the years, we (by which I mean Mr. S., but "we" by extension, because he would never have gotten to do all this stuff had I not been handling the gestation and subsequent general maintenance of our lovely offspring) have dug up, amended, filled, graded, turned, seeded, watered, seeded, watered, seeded, top dressed, seeded, and watered increasing areas of the yard. We worked from the house outward, so for a while it looked like there was just a bit right outside the door that was cared for -- a bit that grew annually, as if to give neighbors and passers-by some hope that someday it might all be presentable.
In our early discussions of where to plant grass vs. ground cover vs. shrubbery (if I owned a nursery, I would call it Roger The Shrubber. Tag line: "nothing too expensive!"), it became clear that we'd probably end up with a lot of grass, and that it would need cutting. S'fine, I said to my husband. You grow it, I'll mow it.
Well. That man can seed. So now we have nice grass (though not the bizarre emerald green kind that screams I CAN'T STOP! I'VE BEEN FERTILIZED AGAIN!), and I try to hold up my end of the deal.
Mowing appeals to me. Back and forth, back and forth, then when you're done things look great. I like yard work that turns off the brain. Mowing and raking are right up my alley. But sometimes Mr. S. wants the clippings bagged (what?). And sometimes our hand-me-down mower won't start. And sometimes, when it's very hot and humid, I mow for a while and then get to feeling dizzy and as if I might throw up. What a wuss! But it's true. I wilt and feel sick.
Then there are the mystery injuries. Last Saturday I did the whole front yard, no problem. Did most of the back, then had to restart the mower and it wouldn't. Somehow, in my increasing, um, vigor with the pull string, I really injured my hand. I didn't notice until later that my whole right index finger was purple. Later still, it swelled up impressively and I couldn't bend it. The swelling's mostly down as I type now, but it still hurts to touch it, and I can't use it for much. Braiding little girls' hair, for example, is out of the question, and using a pen or pencil is tricky.
We are investigating new mowers. I don't want a rider mower -- I think they call them "lawn tractors" now -- although it'd be fun to plow the driveway with it in wintertime. But we have a lot of trees to go around, and eh, even if we had space to store the thing, it just seems like too much. Walking back and forth isn't the hard part of the job, and now that it's grass instead of dust and rocks underfoot, it isn't even unpleasant. So, a regular mower it is. "So do we really need a 'self propelled' one?" says Mr. S. "Um, YEAH," I say. (Hello?!) "Why would we not want that?" The Sears catalog says the standard push mower is good for 1/4 acre or less. Even allowing for my being a bit stronger and/or less easily duped than the average Sears catalog reader, it seems crazy not to get a mower that helps more with the pushing part. Less time spent mowing means less gas burned, more time for other things. To me, it's a no-brainer. He shrugs, and comes up with his reason: "Exercise?"
I have no answer for this except, oh please. Ten years from now -- because let's face it, 1) nobody's getting younger, and 2) if the 275,000+ miles on our last car is any indication, we will not be buying another new lawn mower until the one we're about to buy absolutely craps out -- how angry am I going to be that for the sake of a hundred bucks or so, he was willing to turn a not-unpleasant chore into an ordeal, under the guise of "exercise?" The mere suggestion is maddening. I hope my silence conveys this.
Needless to say I will have to keep a close eye on the lawn mower purchase.
In the meantime, I think we've got the yard shaped up quite well, actually. We kept a lot of the moss, which I quite like. Grass, ground covers, shrubs and flowers have all been established in appropriate places. Mr. S. has worked really, really hard, and it shows. Most of the season, something is blooming. One of my favorites is a beautiful hydrangea that was barely a foot tall when we bought the place, and which took off like crazy as soon as we gave it some real soil to grow in. It has deep purple blooms:
Most hydrangeas around here are light blue, pink if you lime the soil. Every year, I forget that this one is purple, and when it blooms I say "wow, the hydrangea is really purple!" much to Mr. S's amusement. I think he looks forward to my expressing surprise about it. I must seem like the proverbial sheep that's surprised by the sunrise every day. Ah well, at least I entertain him.Come to think of it, that's also the color my finger got, after the pull string debacle.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Opening Season
Memorial Day weekend. Though the solstice is weeks away, this is the symbolic start of Cape Cod summer. Route 6 is packed with everyone coming down to Open the House for The Season. BJs was packed with people stocking up this morning. Well, good for you guys. Someday maybe I'll have something to open for the season, but with two college tuitions looming on the financial horizon I kind of doubt it. I also feel that for me, one house is enough of an anchor, though I am delighted that mine is where it is.
(Oh wait, does a shed count? Mr. S. is building us a shed, which I'm sure to be Opening for The Season for the rest of my natural life :).)
It's been an absolutely glorious Spring. Lots of sunshine and cool breezes, and the temps haven't been much above 60 (F), which I think is just perfect. Last week a friend remarked what a warm Spring we've had, and I laughed, because I'd been about to say the opposite. We're both right. Daytime highs haven't been as warm as in past years, but we also haven't had a frost in weeks. It's all good.
So the daffodils are done and the forsythia's faded, but the rhododendrons are rocking and the oak leaves are opening. Which means the caterpillars are crunching. Hopefully we won't be hit too hard by those this year. The past two caterpillar seasons have been like a plague - really revolting. The trees need a break to recover.
This is also the year for the 17-year cicada. I hate them, hate them, hate them. Which is irrational, because they don't bite or sting. They just hang out in trees making a god awful racket, and blunder noisily through the air, clumsy and stupid, banging into everything. Years ago a friend changed my mindset about them a bit by pointing out it's as if they're saying "whoa... how do you fly this thing???...." then, crash. And it does help to see them as ridiculous rather than loathsome, particularly if I happen to be what they're crashing into. But I still hate 'em.
In my brief search for cicada links, the top sites I found were owned by people who love the damn things. Cicadamania.com ("are you ready for Brood XIV?") warns that if you have a shellfish allergy, you shouldn't eat them.
That's right.
Wherever your season and/or wings are opening, I wish you a joyous and relatively collision-free time of it.
(Oh wait, does a shed count? Mr. S. is building us a shed, which I'm sure to be Opening for The Season for the rest of my natural life :).)
It's been an absolutely glorious Spring. Lots of sunshine and cool breezes, and the temps haven't been much above 60 (F), which I think is just perfect. Last week a friend remarked what a warm Spring we've had, and I laughed, because I'd been about to say the opposite. We're both right. Daytime highs haven't been as warm as in past years, but we also haven't had a frost in weeks. It's all good.
So the daffodils are done and the forsythia's faded, but the rhododendrons are rocking and the oak leaves are opening. Which means the caterpillars are crunching. Hopefully we won't be hit too hard by those this year. The past two caterpillar seasons have been like a plague - really revolting. The trees need a break to recover.
This is also the year for the 17-year cicada. I hate them, hate them, hate them. Which is irrational, because they don't bite or sting. They just hang out in trees making a god awful racket, and blunder noisily through the air, clumsy and stupid, banging into everything. Years ago a friend changed my mindset about them a bit by pointing out it's as if they're saying "whoa... how do you fly this thing???...." then, crash. And it does help to see them as ridiculous rather than loathsome, particularly if I happen to be what they're crashing into. But I still hate 'em.
In my brief search for cicada links, the top sites I found were owned by people who love the damn things. Cicadamania.com ("are you ready for Brood XIV?") warns that if you have a shellfish allergy, you shouldn't eat them.
That's right.
Wherever your season and/or wings are opening, I wish you a joyous and relatively collision-free time of it.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Where the (sorta) Wild Things Are
We get the usual mix of suburban "wild"life at our house. Racoons eat the girls' playground balls if we don't bring them in overnight, and skunks do their stinky thing every so often. We've had a half dozen deer in the yard more than a few times. I'm sure that coyotes see us, whether or not we see them, although one day a big one loped down the driveway casual as anything, right as I was unloading the groceries. I yelled at it to scram and it just stared at me like "uh, you and what army?" Yikes.
Yesterday during breakfast, the Bean hollered that she saw a REALLY BIG BIRD! ON THE CAR! Given that she hollers like that when she sees so much as a moth on the screen door, my first thought was "sparrow." But sure enough, there was a big ol' bird of prey just hanging out on top of the car. Quick, to the window! We stood very still watching it for a while. The novelty of a hawk chillaxn (heh) on the sunroof a few feet from the house warranted a few moments of video (Mr. Sandy is away with the still camera, dang it! I can't post a pic!). It stood, sat, stood, sat, shifted its weight around, and settled in for a while. So long that the girls went back to their raisin toast and told me to alert them if something interesting happened.
People just don't say about me, "now there's someone who knows her raptors," and that's probably not going to change any time soon. Paging through my Peterson's guide to Eastern Birds, I now see that I noticed all the wrong things, if I want to be able to tell hawks apart. It had bright yellow legs! Yah. They all do. It had brown and white flecked belly and brown upper parts! Yah... all the immature ones do. It had a banded tail! Yah... they mostly all do. I failed to notice whether it had yellow or red eyes, a notched or rounded tail, a stripe over its eye, or any other critical identifying characteristic. I'm quite sure it was a young 'un, and I hope it was an endangered species, cause we have a family of four of them thriving right in our woods and it would be especially cool to see that. But it's probably the Exceedingly Common Cape Cod Woodland Hawk, or equivalent.
We are always glad though to see anything in our yard... hawks, snakes, owls, anything... that eats mice. Mice carry deer ticks, which carry Lyme disease, and if you live on Cape Cod, your risk of getting Lyme is many times what it would be if you lived most anywhere else -- greater even, I think, than if you lived in Lyme itself. Also, mice nest in the cars' air vents, then proceed to die a gruesome death there when the fan is turned on, then proceed to smell awful, then proceed to cost us $35 to get the air vent cleaned out. (Loathe to spend the $35 yet again, Mr. Sandy did this job himself once, and said it was the most disgusting task he ever did, no contest. Mike Rowe he ain't, but still.)
So bon appetit, birdie, whatever you are. But dude, no pooping on the car, I just waxed it.
Yesterday during breakfast, the Bean hollered that she saw a REALLY BIG BIRD! ON THE CAR! Given that she hollers like that when she sees so much as a moth on the screen door, my first thought was "sparrow." But sure enough, there was a big ol' bird of prey just hanging out on top of the car. Quick, to the window! We stood very still watching it for a while. The novelty of a hawk chillaxn (heh) on the sunroof a few feet from the house warranted a few moments of video (Mr. Sandy is away with the still camera, dang it! I can't post a pic!). It stood, sat, stood, sat, shifted its weight around, and settled in for a while. So long that the girls went back to their raisin toast and told me to alert them if something interesting happened.
People just don't say about me, "now there's someone who knows her raptors," and that's probably not going to change any time soon. Paging through my Peterson's guide to Eastern Birds, I now see that I noticed all the wrong things, if I want to be able to tell hawks apart. It had bright yellow legs! Yah. They all do. It had brown and white flecked belly and brown upper parts! Yah... all the immature ones do. It had a banded tail! Yah... they mostly all do. I failed to notice whether it had yellow or red eyes, a notched or rounded tail, a stripe over its eye, or any other critical identifying characteristic. I'm quite sure it was a young 'un, and I hope it was an endangered species, cause we have a family of four of them thriving right in our woods and it would be especially cool to see that. But it's probably the Exceedingly Common Cape Cod Woodland Hawk, or equivalent.
We are always glad though to see anything in our yard... hawks, snakes, owls, anything... that eats mice. Mice carry deer ticks, which carry Lyme disease, and if you live on Cape Cod, your risk of getting Lyme is many times what it would be if you lived most anywhere else -- greater even, I think, than if you lived in Lyme itself. Also, mice nest in the cars' air vents, then proceed to die a gruesome death there when the fan is turned on, then proceed to smell awful, then proceed to cost us $35 to get the air vent cleaned out. (Loathe to spend the $35 yet again, Mr. Sandy did this job himself once, and said it was the most disgusting task he ever did, no contest. Mike Rowe he ain't, but still.)
So bon appetit, birdie, whatever you are. But dude, no pooping on the car, I just waxed it.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Things I Love
I could write a whole blog about things I love. Life is full of 'em. It's way more than I deserve.
The thing that comes to mind tonight is the indescribably lovely feeling of the air on these late spring Cape Cod evenings. The days are long, and it's still twilight when the girls go to bed. I get back downstairs and step outside in time to see the first stars come out. A breeze keeps the bugs away and makes a gentle ssshing noise through the woods. It's cool and dry, even if the day was warm and humid.
Breathing feels more like drinking, on evenings like this.
The thing that comes to mind tonight is the indescribably lovely feeling of the air on these late spring Cape Cod evenings. The days are long, and it's still twilight when the girls go to bed. I get back downstairs and step outside in time to see the first stars come out. A breeze keeps the bugs away and makes a gentle ssshing noise through the woods. It's cool and dry, even if the day was warm and humid.
Breathing feels more like drinking, on evenings like this.
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