The sun dips below the western tree line around 8 p.m.  This is a great time to water and a relaxing time to chat with other plot owners at the garden.  Two days ago a note went out warning about a dreaded squash borer infestation. Last night  I brought along a printed brochure to leave in our reference desk (a ziplock bag tied to the water spigot that we leave notes in).

There were two women that I had not yet met along with a young girl and boy gently misting their plots.  One of the women, the ‘auntie’ introduced herself.  We started talking about the cut worm that has found its way to the yummy hollow-stemmed vines of many of our straight and crook-necked squash plants.  I showed her a picture of the very unusual moth that has found our neighborhood to be so inviting.

You already know that this gardening stuff is not my strong suit but the processes involved fascinate me.  Bugs are interesting.  The transformation of seed to sprout is more fundamental a miracle to me than Lazarus rising from a corpse.  The jargon of flora and fauna is purely poetical.  Say this out loud and listen to yourself–Melittia cucurbitae, Order of Lepidoptera, Family Sesiidae.  That’s who came to dinner.

On the other hand, to a squash plant these little guys are no less than piratical cut-throats that go chuckling into their very marrow and tear the life out of them.  They are cancer visible.

So who wanted to know about our new garden pets, I mean pests.  Auntie?  Mama?  ‘Course not.  It was the little girl and boy.  We sat down by one of my squash plants and looked for the tell-tale wound at the bottom of the stem.

“Think something got in there?  Should we look?”

There’s a question that required no answer.  Well, duh.

Being less sentimental than a real gardener, I ripped the affected vine from the plant.  Our three heads bobbed together as we looked closely.  I started to split the stem open and we saw a tiny amount of fuzzy yellow particles along with a bit of greenish-yellow ooze.

“See that?  I think someone was here.  You know what I think that is?”

The kids put their hands on mine to move the vine and get a better angle.  Then they looked at me expectantly.

“Larva poop.”

Big smiles from the kids punctuated by groans from Auntie and Mama.

“Come on, let’s look a little bit farther but we need to be careful and quiet.”

We examined the widening slit closely until-bingo.

“Look at that.  It’s pretty small.  What do you see?”

“It’s white,” said the girl.  “And it has a black spot on it’s head.”

“Cool,” said the boy.

“It’s pretty surprised right now.  They don’t expect to be in the light.  See, these guys are really smart.  You know how moths usually come out at night and fly around your window or lamp posts?  These guys are moths but they come out during the day.  The mom puts her eggs on a yummy plant like this where the babies can sneak inside the vines.  See, most caterpillars eat on the outside of plants and that’s where something else can find them and eat them up.  These guys live on the inside where they don’t get rained on and they have all the food they want and they have this great shelter.  Pretty smart, I’d say.”

The kids nod.  Sounds like a good plan.

I ripped up the rest of the squash plant.

“Not in my plot.”

The kids thought this was pretty funny.  Their mom, though, she looked a little worried.  Her eyes flicked over to her plot where in the corner was growing a  yellow squash vine with broad leaves and flowers.

“Let’s see what else we can find,” I said handing the kids some stems with leaves.  “Take a look at the bottom sides of the leaves and see if there is anything that looks strange.”

“Hey, look at this.  Is this something?” asked the boy.  He held out a leaf that had a dozen little spots neatly laid out at the crux of two veins.

“Great job.  Look at that.  Those are eggs.  Aren’t they cool?  Look how neat they’re laid out.  Their like treasures all in little rows.  See, they hatch there and the tiny critters just zip down the stem and cut their way in.  Then they’re safe.  Until we came along.”

“So what do we do with them?”

“Well, we can leave them alone and let them grow.  We can put soap on them and suffocate them.  We can put them in a bucket of water and they will eventually drown.  Or I hear their really good for little boys to eat.”

“Cool” the boy said just at the same time that Auntie said “No.”  Mom smirked.

“Just kidding.  You aren’t hungry enough.  Save them for some starving kid.”

While the kids took the infected plants to a water filled bucket to drown the invaders I spoke with their mom.

“It’s important that you not compost your squash vines if they are infested,” I told mom.  “They’ll live in the soil and then just continue to spread.”

Of course mom wanted to look at her beautiful plant and we did find eggs and a suspicious slit.

“See that ooze?  That’s your plant screaming.”

We talked about destroying the eggs and carefully splitting the affected stem to remove the larvae.  I explained that the vines could be re-rooted above the wound by covering with dirt.  I asked her if she had old pantyhose and suggested that she wrap the vines with it so a new infestation of egg laying moths could not find purchase although this is a weak preventative.   I showed her pictures of the jewel bright moths so she could look out for them.  I showed her a brochure with a bacterial insecticide that paralyzes the digestive system of lepidoptera and talked about care in using it as there are other members of that order that offer neither threat nor harm.

We returned to the two kids who were enthusiastically performing their ritual execution through dunking.  It is funny to me how children can enjoy the cycles of living and dying with pure exuberance.  I don’t know if this is a lack of morality or a healthier view of the planet system as a whole.  Either way, the larvae had no chance between their squishing fingers.  Better luck next life.

Mom told them it was time to go and they both groaned.  They wanted to play.  The boy looked at me with his blue eyes bright, cheeks smudged and hands dripping.

“I love nature,” he said.

“No one has given me a flower,” she said,  “since my husband passed seventeen months ago.”

And Helen looked down at her feet, nodding slightly.

In bright sunshine of a late winter afternoon the chains on her jeans jingled and light made sparks in her hair.  Helen carefully chose a long stemmed rose from the bucket and slowly, cautiously traversed each walkway.

“What organization sponsored you?” and “What church?”

“We don’t go to church,” she said quietly.  “I don’t know what you mean,” in her tiny voice.

She waited patiently at each door, giving the senior within time to negotiate coming from sitting to standing, to peek out a window, to decide whether or not to open the door.  The first few seemed confused, not addled just uncertain.  I tried to see her through their eyes.  She is so serious and her appearance reflects not the latest fad but her own style of darkness and light.  I  hoped they could perceive her intent, how difficult it was for her to overcome her shyness and speak to strangers.  How important it was to her to acknowledge her respect for elders.  How fervently she wished them happiness.

The senior housing center contains a surprising forty-five units sequestered off a by-way and tucked  into scrub woods.  Five miniature attached apartments comprise each row-house.  Those visible from the entrance are parallel to each other and perpendicular to the road.  Unused back doors meet uneven ground in weedy backyards.  There are no fences to lean over, no paths connecting them.    It speaks to separation, like blind women groping forward not knowing that those they seek are immediately behind them.  Helen calls them ‘dog pounds for people.’  For several months she had been wanting to visit, to bring them something, to say “hello, I am thinking of you.”  Valentine’s Day and a really good price on variegated bouquets of long stemmed roses made this possible.  We unwrapped the discount grocery store bundles, plunged the stem ends into fresh water in a clean bucket  and hoped for the best.  They were surprisingly intact, firm buds, strong stems.

The units further in the back face each other around a central  square.  By the time she reached the first of these rows, the neighborhood network must have kicked in.   She was met more quickly at the front doors.  Her “Happy Valentine’s Day” and proffered flower were met with wide smiles and not a few moist eyes;  suspicion dissipated.  While waiting at one stoop a lady poked her head out three units away.  She couldn’t wait.

“Hilda’s not there.  Her car is gone!”

Helen bypassed the intervening houses, choosing another rose.  She left several with this cheery woman rather than leave them tied to the door knobs.  Drawn by the sounds of conversation, more residents came forward, waiting.  Helen demurely passed out her offerings with a quiet “Have a nice Valentine’s Day.”  Neighbors remained out-of-doors chatting and catching up with one another.

With a dozen apartments to go we spied a woman in the last row struggling to bring a chair onto her stoop.  Even from a distance we could see that this was quite an effort.  I suggested that Helen go right away and not keep her in suspense.  As she walked away, I thought of her steadiness, steadfastness.  She had set herself to a task that was uncomfortable for her.  She does not like to be the center of attention and here she was causing quite a riot.  I admired the way she stood up to the scrutiny from behind curtains and peepholes.  Then I noted a disturbance in one of the  units that she bypassed.

The front door opened as Helen passed up the sidewalk.  An older but not elderly woman was intent on sweeping — but also on keeping an eye on that girl.  Since her neck was not a periscope she was forced to quite vigorously sweep the door frame, then the front step, then the beginning of the sidewalk to keep an eye on Helen’s retreating form.  I heard her ‘harrumpf’ which sounded in my mind like ‘it’s my turn.  Where’s mine?’  I brought her a flower to ease her anticipation but could tell right away that this was second class.  Mine was not the hand to make this offer.  Helen had started something much deeper than we had known.

I had to rescue the poor girl from the unit she had gone to.  The resident had asked her inside and was  filling a plastic bag with small handicrafts.  “You can have this and this and this,” the woman was saying and proudly  “My son already gave me my flower today.”  We admired her flower and I extricated poor Helen who was completely at a loss under the barrage of pent up words that were pouring around and through her.

When we got back on track, all the front doors had been opened.  “Welcome,” it said to me.  “Don’t forget me,” was the message Helen percieved.  She did not forget a single one.

So we’re at TJ Maxx picking over the clearance items.  Chris of course separated from me as soon as we got through the front door.  Once I’d done my thing, I found him in men’s clothes and we headed for the cashier.

As I am paying for my few purchases I see two employees are talking to Chris.  They are both young women, maybe twenty.  One of them says to him “you know that girl that was talking to you a few minutes ago?”

“Um, yeah, I think,” he answers.

The two young ladies look at each other then the second says, “she wants to know can she have your phone number?”

I fell out.

Chris mumbled something about not being interested and not giving out his phone number.  Outside of the store, joking, I asked him if that happens to him often.

“Every time I go out, pretty much.”

My son is a chick magnet?

Just for kicks I asked Helen about it later.

“Yeah.  Girls ask him for his phone number all the time.  He doesn’t give it out.”

What?

A finding in neurology shows that our brains continue to grow and make connections into our mid-twenties. This is why younger people’s intellects are so flexible. Human beings under the age of thirty are natural and avid learners. They absorb so much so quickly. It also may be the reason that older people sometimes feel like they need a translator in order to understand what teenagers pick up so quickly. We are so lucky that there are people out there to fill in that gap. An example:

Last week a study was published by Adrian North of the School of Life Sciences in Britain relating musical preferences to personality attributes. One correlation that I found to be especially interesting is that “contrary to the stereotype, heave metal fans are gentle and at ease with themselves.” I keep this in mind when I sit with my son watching videos on fuse. He is my personal translator. When the leather and chain clad lads jumping around fire pits spitting brimstone and groan, moan, grunt and growl he helps me out.

“Grrrr, ungh garble, huhnguh!”

“Honey, what did he just say?”

“He said ‘I don’t like rice!”

Grungh skrun hungh huhnguh”

“Now what did he say?

“He said ‘don’t serve me rice for dinner!”

We muddle along.

Seventeen years ago today
the earth did not wobble from its axis.
The stars did not dip in the sky.

Seventeen years ago
the universe did not for one second
hold its cosmic breath
or move from expansion to contraction.

(But you cannot convince me of this.)

Seventeen years ago Helen made me a mother.

My planet wobbled.
The stars sang.
And every angel or deva or what have you
collectively paused
for an immeasurable moment in linear time,
directing their joyous attention
to the absolute perfection
of sweet and wondrous
human creation.

(Happy Birthday, darling girl.
Mama loves you.)

Forgive me, I am a little giddy.

When we were tiny Grandma Collins used to grab our little feet, count off our toes saying “to market to market to buy a fat pig. Home again, home again jiggity-jig.”

Chris came home this morning.

I have always said that there is something very special about Chris. His surgeon, Dr. Weatherly, confirmed this. Chris is one of the 5% of people whose appendix corkscrews behind the cecum (the connecting portion of the small and large intestine). As his appendix became infected, it became enlarged on the back side of his intestines. This area has no pain receptors. Normally as the appendix enlarges it contacts a wall of nerves that immediately gets your attention. In Chris’ case he had pressure and cramping but not that typical pain associated with appendicitis. We estimate that his appendicitis was worsening for at least four weeks before it ruptured.

Dr. Weatherly said that his appendix was the size of an orange–and picture an orange that has been sitting in a warm moist environment for four weeks. Ugh.

Note: surgeons do not let you bring home soft tissue in a mason jar.

The really good news is that given the position of the appendix, when it ruptured any infected material was localized and therefore didn’t cause wide-spread infection. Chris did have to have a larger incision including some cutting of the muscle wall in order to remove tissue and infected material. This resulted in his extended hospital stay.

Chris worked really hard to get better. His doctor explained to him the effect of painkillers on resumption of his digestive processes, encouraged him to walk, breathe deeply and cough. All of this was very, very painful. (Note to readers, ‘very, very’ may be poor style but that’s the way it was). Chris made the decision to refuse painkillers and exceeded expectation in his efforts to speed his own recovery. He showed determination but also a degree of personal insight in pushing himself to his appropriate limit.

This morning Chris was absolutely ready to come home. He slept well for the first time last night. The weekend night nurse walked on cat paws. She checked in regularly but stole in like a shadow, reassuring, never invasive. When Chris awoke he was refreshed and looking at the door. Yesterday I came home for a couple of hours in the afternoon to set up the guest room with a t.v. and an armchair. Sam and I took out the rug so he would have a straight shot to the bathroom. This morning Chris let us know that he was not going to be stuck away in a wing. He is at this moment in the family room, he caught up with his MySpace buddies and is right in the middle of the (in)action, as typical. He needs to be on minimal activity for a couple of weeks but he is home.

It is about six months now that Helen has moved toward a vegetarian diet. She no longer eats mammals. We don’t generally have fish and it’s been awhile since she has had tuna. She on occasion will eat chicken, maybe once a month. She does drink milk and eats cheese.

She and I talk about nutrition. I want to be sure that her diet is balanced because she is still growing. One of the foods that I have introduced to her is texturized soy protein (TSP). Although I have a sensitivity to soy, her system does well with it. The other night we made a really easy dinner for her with it.

Vegetarian Pad Thai

• Handful TSP
• Vegetable Broth
• Rice Noodles
• Olive Oil
• Onion
• Pad Thai Sauce
• Peanuts
• Bean Sprouts

Soak TSP in vegetable broth to soften. Pour boiling water over rice noodles, also to soften. Heat oil in pan. Dice onions and saute. Mix in softened TSP and stir while heating through. Turn off heat but leave pan on burner. Drain noodles and stir into mixture in pan. Pour over and stir in pad thai sauce until well mixed. Stir in small handful of crushed peanuts and generous handful of bean sprouts.

OK. We buy TSP in bulk at Deep Roots Food Co-op on Spring Garden Street (between Holden Road and Wendover). The rice noodles and pad thai sauce are from Dynasty International Foods, one block away. When I don’t make my own, I prefer Imagine broth. The vidalia onions are really sweet right now. Normally we would use mung bean sprouts from Dynasty. This time we used home sprouted pea, azuki bean and lentil sprouts. They are not as moist as the mung bean sprouts. They are a little sweet and crunchy and add a good punch of whole live food, good energy.

Note to mom–I will send you some TSP and pad thai sauce so you can try this.

There was still time to turn around.

The piercer.

The preparation.

The piercing.

The result.

I will leave mom’s reflection for another post.

NOTE: These pictures do not show the whole process.  DO NOT PUT HOLES IN YOUR FACE WITHOUT THE GUIDANCE OF A PROFESSIONAL.

Some weeks ago while taking a brisk walk around the block I saw two young birds furiously practicing flight.  Their wings were a whirl, their eyes on a bush not 12 feet away.  I saw them try to glide only to discover the obstacle of gravity.  They had energy, birdie optimism.  Their goal was in sight.  They were comically awkward.   Cruel me, I stood still and laughed, poor things.

What I could see clearly and they did not have the experience to know was that their pinfeathers had emerged but their flight feathers were immature.  Even their most enthusiastic flapping would allow them to travel just so far from the nest.  I imagined mama bird in the myrtle suppressing a chuckle.  She watched them for a moment then plumped their bed with new fluff.

“When I gauge my ears or find a new piercing, I feel like I am becoming on the outside what I know I am on the inside,” Chris says.

“Tell me what that means,” I say.

“It’s like there is another me on the inside, like someone invisible that walks beside me. It’s like my future me, the person that I am meant to be. It’s like I have always known that this is who I am going to be and it’s who I am becoming.”

I say to my husband, “it’s not about what you or I think is attractive or presentable. We have a say, we have authority but it’s based on health and safety. It’s safeguarding him as he takes on responsibility for himself. We are guides in his process of growing up. The foundation was laid years ago. We are the scaffold. We support him to the extent he needs as he builds himself then we remove ourselves so that he can stand on his own. Our questions are about harm and health. Our job is to teach him the process of making decisions, not to decide for him.”

What I don’t know, what I can’t know is if piercing is a fad for him or if he is truly connecting with his authentic self. Should I oppose him because he wants to alter his looks in a way that may leave a permanent scar?

What I do know is that parents leave eternal marks on the souls of their children. No superficial mark is as indelible as the scars left by neglect or disdain or malice. The keystone is active informed unconditional love.