Preparations

The past week has finally seen some real preparations for the garden and spring time. Good thing, you're thinking, because it's already . . . mid-January, I know. But it's fun to start dreaming about the garden and I almost guarantee the Boyfriend and I will plant too early, which we do every year but this year for sure since it's our first spring in the new house. In any case, we browsed through the Second Chance Building Materials store (very cool) a couple weeks ago looking for old windows and returned on Monday to pick up a couple. I think they're perfect. The boyfriend is going to turn them into, um, I don't know what they're called--essentially little green houses where we can start our seeds this spring. I think he read about it in Coop by Michael Perry. This system promises to be much more effective than last year's strategy of lining up soggy egg carton starts on the ironing board in front of a window. At least the ironing board got some good use. On a related note, I also finally ordered my seed catalog a week or two ago and am checking the mail eagerly each day.

I'm also trying to decide where to add a new raised bed or two. I proposed to the Boyfriend that I could buy some wood and he could build some more of his beautiful raised beds. He accepted, which is further proof that he's great. So now I have to settle on where, since the dimensions will be dependent on the space.

While the picture shows a straight-forward corner with nice clean right angles, there is one big unknown in this planning process: dog attack patterns. This corner is often the meeting place of six dogs, with an occasional unfortunate squirrel thrown in (actually above) the mix on certain days. A huge battle often breaks out in this corner, with none of the parties apparently deterred by the unmoving fence and lack of resolution. Let me introduce you to the contenders:

Along the fence in the right side of the picture are two chihuahuas. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned them before. Their noses make frequent visits across the fence, but luckily (for them) they weigh about 2 ounces too much to actually fit through the slats of the fence. How they have kept their noses attached to their scrawny little emaciated faces is beyond me and not for lack of effort on Apollo and Kira's part. On the left side of the fence there are actually two other yards that are close to the corner. They each have dogs and to tell you the truth I have no clue what kind. One is named Mr. Giles, but beyond that, they're both small and like to bark, which kind of makes them all the same to me. In any case, our dogs and these dogs often meet at the corner for these mock dog fights that involve serious barking, mild fence scratching, and neurotic running up and down the fence line. How this will all play out with garden planning is yet to be determined. The optimist in me thinks the raised beds will act as a deterrent. The realist in me knows that it will result in squashed squashes. Stay tuned.

The End of an Era

During any given week, there are at least a couple days where I consciously think about how glad I am to be back in Boise, close to my roots, settled in a place that I love, and surrounded by the people that mean the most to me and tolerate me quite patiently and kindly. Yesterday, in particular, was one of those days.

I was lucky to go through Boise's public school system and have an all-around great experience. I know I received a great education in the classroom, but when I think back on those junior and senior high years, I often find myself reminiscing about the stuff out of the classroom. I loved playing sports and being part of a team (my, how that has changed . . . college group projects, and group grades, will do that to a person), especially in junior high. At the younger level, sports were about developing character, learning the fundamentals, playing as a team, and working hard. In high school, I suppose it was about some of those things, but it was also about politics, pressures, and expectations. In any case, I had a great set of coaches in junior high, and one in particular that I've kept in touch with. I think he expected great things from me, but somehow I never feel like he's disappointed by the rather average output of my adult life to date. He's been supportive during times I needed it most and always reminds me to be my best self.

I meant to get to one of his team's basketball games last winter, but just never got around to it. This fall, I saw an article in the paper about him and another coach coaching their last football game, since both would be retiring. I promised myself I would make it to a basketball game this winter, assuming it would be his last season on the hardwood as well. I put it off and put it off, not having the schedule and being busy with work. I finally emailed him last week and got the schedule and headed to a game last night. It turned out, it was his last game.

They lost quite badly, although they worked hard, played good defense, and worked as a team. He coached until the last second, still trying to get them to set the half-court trap just right. The end was unceremonious. The game wasn't at home. You wouldn't have known it was the end of a decades-long tradition at Hillside Junior High, and perhaps to many people it wouldn't have mattered, but it mattered to me. Those were some of my favorite years and my favorite teams. Those were years I learned a lot about hard work, respect, and pride.

I didn't necessarily set out to be there for his last game--my planning, or lack thereof, was just dumb luck. But it was perfect and made me thankful again to be here in Boise, where my roots run deep, where I spent those formative years that start shaping you into the adult you'll become, where I can show up to a junior high basketball game and be reminded of the important things that matter most in this world. Some teachers never stop teaching.

Happy New Year!

So the holidays have come and gone, and my head might still be spinning from the 6 weeks or so between Thanksgiving and New Years. In other years I might have complained that I was so busy with work during the holidays, but this year I would be a fool to even consider it. However, I'm enjoying the general slow down that comes after ringing in the new year, watching the last bowl game, and eating the last of the sweets that have transformed me into a manic, headache-riddled, sugar addict. The produce section and I are looking forward to getting reacquainted.

I always look forward to the new year, but perhaps never as much as this year. I'm looking forward to so many knowns and am positive that the unknowns will hold even more excitement. I can't wait to spend a whole calendar year and four seasons in the new house. The Boyfriend has a great idea for a little mini greenhouse for us to start some seeds in and I just ordered my seed catalog online this week. I have this theory that once the new year comes, spring is just right around the corner. This little belief of mine is probably what makes the actual coming of spring seem so long and what makes me start planting things in March way before it makes any logical sense to do so. Hey, I have lots of friends in the plant industry who depend on people like me to do stupid things like that. These same people buy me beers every once in a while, so really, the money comes right back to me, right? In any case, I'll be looking forward to spring every day from now until the first crocus appears. Shoot, I didn't get my crocus planted. Ugh.

The new year also brings the promise of the regular semi-resolutions: eating healthier, being more active, calling my friends more, staying more organized, etc. We'll see how it goes. My progress so far has amounted to buying a file cabinet and going to the gym. I guess I'm easing into it. Oh yeah, I ate a salad the other day too. We're also hoping to plan a couple trips this year, perhaps to Tucson for the Tour de Tucson bike race and Washington DC for the Boise State vs. Virginia Tech football game. Now that I think about it, saving money should probably be in the resolutions too. I'm also hoping to do a lot more writing in 2010, both here and elsewhere. Here's to hoping the world will be as supportive of my writing as the friends and family that stop by here every once in a while!

Besides the big things, here are a few other mini-resolutions for 2010:

• send cards for birthdays, anniversaries, and no reason at all (Note to self: This is largely dependent on being more organized--yikes.)
• hand write letters, because I think my hand writing is regressing to post-elementary school levels
• return library books on time, because I hate having to wait for something I really want on the waiting list
• deal with the mail every day, instead of stacking it nicely in an ever-growing pile
• print out pictures, because if my hard drive crashes I'll have no life history
• try to hate doing laundry less

Ugh, I'm getting overwhelmed, so we'll just stop there for now.

Here's to 2010 and great possibilities.

Places, spaces, and holidays

I've always been fascinated by the idea of place. It's a very complex and meaningful concept to me, and I suppose it has been, in some way, since I was quite young. Place ranks up there with family, friends, love, respect, and cheese in the things most important to me. I've been reading Michael Pollan's A Place of My Own: The Architecture of Daydreams recently. While it is actually about architecture in a major sense, it is also about writing and place, hence the reason I put it on hold and actually followed through with picking it up at the local library. Anyway, Pollan asks, "What is a place after all but a bit of space that people like me have invested with meaning?" I've rolled this question around in my head quite a bit, and whether I agree one hundred percent or not, he's definitely on to something. Where am I going with this? The holidays are definitely one of those times that we invest meaning in our spaces. And this year, in this new space, I'm happy to be continuing traditions and perhaps starting new ones.

As I think I mentioned before, it doesn't take many years for me to call something a tradition. I suppose it just takes the knowledge that I want to and will do something again and on a regular basis. (For those that know me well, this is a huge acknowledgement in itself!) So even though this was only the second year that I pulled out the Soroptomist gift list and tearfully read over requests for lotion, soda, salt and pepper, and Kleenex while watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade, I was still happy to continue a tradition. Last year, The Boyfriend and I each picked out an oldster to buy a gift for after I read the entire list and cried because of the simple and basic items these people requested. This year, we thought about going in together for one oldster, since times are a little lean. But after wish list entries that were as simple as Kleenex and warm socks, or diet Pepsi and chocolate, I think we can spring for our own oldsters. And just to give you an idea of how great I think this list is and how much it puts me in the giving spirit, I'm even thinking of signing up for an oldster asking for an Oregon Ducks calendar. The week before the biggest Civil War ever, I think you'll understand the implications of this gesture. (Go Beavs!)

The tradition of alternating Thanksgiving between my mom and aunt's house continues this year, and it's Mom's turn. However, we're joined this year by my aunt and uncle from my dad's side of the family. I'm so excited to have both sides of the family together, especially this year. This Thanksgiving is going to be hard because of the year we've all had, but having more love, and more family, and more thankful faces around the table will make it easier. We'll laugh and we'll drink and we'll eat too much food like every year, and that will feel good. We'll miss those who aren't with us around the table, and that will feel good too because it means they're in our hearts. It means that love is strong and real and that we're present. The Boyfriend had to remind me once this year that being sad is good for that reason--it makes us know that we are here and we are experiencing life and love, both in the hard and wonderful times. I'm thankful for all that this year.

Will Thanksgiving with both sides of the family be a new tradition? Probably not, because I'm guessing my cousins will get their parents back for next Thanksgiving, but I'm hoping Jade's Chopstick on Thanksgiving Eve will be. What says Thanksgiving Eve like Chinese food in a strip mall? Apparently nothing, because the place was packed and I was happy as a clam to have someone else cook for me with spices and ingredients and meats that couldn't be less Thanksgivingish. Yes, Thanksgivingish. I even have leftovers, should I dare having a pre-Thanksgiving lunch. Right now, I'm trying to talk myself into a pre-Thanksgiving run.

Bring on the holidays--bring on the turkey and the beer and the laughter and . . . I was going to say tears, but I'm not trying to rhyme so we'll just leave it at that. I have so much to be thankful for today and always. I think I do a pretty good job of remembering that, but I'm willing to eat some pie and mashed potatoes for good measure.

Bulbs

Last weekend I finally got the majority of my bulbs planted. I bought most of them a while back, but after the struggles of planting our perennial bed, I was lacking the motivation to do battle with the cement slabs, beer bottles, and belts of rusty nails that are buried just under the surface of our flower beds. However, The Boyfriend was in the garage fixing a dozen or so flat tires (I'm not exaggerating here either), so I figured I had some time to kill. Plus, if I was going to justify drinking a beer in the garage with him, I thought I should probably do some work to earn it. I don't call it a home-improvement beer because you get to sit on your ass while you drink it!


At first I was paralyzed with the decision of where to plant the bulbs. Where would the colors look best? Where would they not compete with the generously landscaped beds? What would those beds even look like in March? It seemed like a big decision, until I reminded myself I could always dig them up next year if I hated where they ended up. The Boyfriend made some suggestions and I dug in (pun intended). I was pleasantly surprised that the dirt in the front of the house was rocky, but otherwise fairly innocuous.


As most of you won't be surprised to learn, I had some bulbs to plant that were especially meaningful, which might account for some of my hesitation in deciding where to place them. I started with the irises. The irises came from Grandma Zada's yard almost a year and a half ago now. Last spring, I planted them at The Mini on what turned out to be the day that my uncle lost his battle with cancer. Last spring I waited and waited for them to come up, wanting desperately to see something beautiful spring forth from that sad, snowy day. Finally, little green tips pushed up through the soil, slowly at first and then surprisingly quickly. They didn't actually produce flowers last year, as Erik had warned me might happen. But they grew and they were alive and that's all I cared about. When I moved out of The Mini this summer, they were one of the last things to make the move. I dug them up and stashed them in a paper bag in the garage, where they've been waiting for their new ground--ground I hope they will occupy for quite some time. During that time, Grandma passed away, but while I was planting the irises on the west side of the driveway, I couldn't help but smile thinking how thrilled she would be that some of her flowers are here in Boise at our place. My Grandma Garden will be complete in the spring when I get some gladiolas in the ground.


Around the crazy tree in front, The Boyfriend and I both thought some tulips would look nice. I planted the little bed full of dark maroon and white tulips. The ones that didn't fit there went across the path in the hopes of creating a beautifully bordered springtime entryway. I even poured out all the bulbs on the sidewalk and mixed the two colors in an effort to combat my irrepressible urge to plant things in an ordered, symmetrical pattern. We'll see if randomness looks good next spring!



The final planting of last weekend was some daffodils that were in an arrangement I got following my uncle's funeral. You might remember this arrangement as the source of my hydrangea and azalea that we planted in the perennial bed in back. I only had three of these little guys, but I thought they would look perfect in front of a rock at the curve of the driveway. I dug these guys out of the arrangement, clipped the leaves off, and stored them in sawdust last spring, which in my mind leaves lots of room for error. Here's to hoping!



The only thing I have left to plant are some crocus bulbs. I bought these because there is not a more welcome sight in the world after winter than looking down and seeing those thin green harbingers of spring. When I lived in Corvallis, Mom and I would compare when the crocus came up as a sure sign that spring was in fact going to come again (Corvallis always won, for those of you who are curious). Crocus may be my annual Prozac, promising me that spring is around the corner even if many cold days will surely transpire between the first crocus and the breaking out of the flip flops. It's the promise that spring's coming that jolts me out of the doldrums of winter. Nevermind the fact that spring comes every year--I still need some green proof that this year won't break the mold.

A Perfect Fall Afternoon (and Kickstands)

Sometimes things just feel perfect. I can remember a handful of moments in my adult life where I felt completely content, happy, and mentally there--when my thoughts didn't wander to other places, or my to-do list, or the six cookies I shouldn't have eaten for breakfast. But yesterday afternoon was one of those moments. The Boyfriend and I decided to take a bike ride--an Erica bike ride, mind you, not a Boyfriend bike ride. So we hopped on the bikes and headed out, I thought to the Optimist football fields down the road. I had secretly stashed a Frisbee in one of my panniers and attached it to my bike, a lopsided effect only possible with something as light as a Frisbee. (I tried it with groceries once, which didn't work out so well.)


Once we were on the road, The Boyfriend took a route I wasn't expecting. We headed out the rolling, two-lane road that I commonly refer to as Old Hill Road but is in fact just Hill Road. The fancy Hill Road Parkway relieved Hill Road proper of its thoroughfare duties a number of years ago, so we had the road to ourselves. We rode in the middle of the street, pedaling up the inclines and coasting the descents. When I was little, I thought if we drove the road fast enough it would feel like a "tummy-tickler" road I was once on in Arizona, almost like an impromptu roller coaster. Today, the rises and falls were just as much fun. In the years since I had been on that portion of Hill Road, the trees had enveloped the road even more, creating a shadowy tunnel. As we were riding west, the trees made the afternoon sun dance behind the fluttering leaves that would surely be gone in another week or two. I wanted to close my eyes and feel the sun flickering across my face, but I can hardly ride a bike with my eyes open, so I opted to just enjoy the view. The road cuts across the base of the foothills just a bit above the valley floor, so we could look down on farms and houses and horses. It was a perfect fall afternoon.


As we rode next to each other on the road, the leaves crunching and crackling under our bikes, The Boyfriend asked if I wanted to go up to the cemetery. I had only one question: was there a big hill to get there? No, he assured me, just a small rise. A small rise to The Boyfriend is a Mount Everest to me, but somehow, every time we're on the bikes, with the wind swooshing through my hair and the sun in my eyes, I seem to forget this. So we climbed up the road to Dry Creek Cemetery. I don't know how it is that I've never been up there, but if I have, I don't remember it at all. It was incredible. The single-lane road wound through the grounds, and colorful leaves punctuated the green lawns, along with flowers, memorials, and stately monuments. We didn't climb all the way to the Veterans' Cemetery, but took the road to the top of Dry Creek Cemetery. The view from the top was incredible, especially as the 4:00 autumn sun approached the horizon. It would have felt chilly if we would have stopped for long, but my muscles were warm from the steady "rise." We coasted all the way back down, only looking down long enough to avoid the occasional pothole.


As we came out of the cemetery and on to Hill Road Parkway, I was surprised to see we were right across from the football fields. We rode into the park, where I made a big show of parking my bike wherever I wanted, since I have a kickstand. After The Boyfriend assured me his next girlfriend would loathe kickstands as much as he does, he leaned his bike against the sign for field 3 (how inconvenient!) and I busted out the Frisbee. After two horrific tosses that sliced quite badly, the feeling came back to me and my throws improved. We tossed the Frisbee for 10 or 20 minutes before jumping on the bikes and heading home. Hill Road Parkway features one of the nicest, if most goathead-riddled bike lanes in town. It also, much to my delight, features a great walking path separated from the bike lane and road beyond by six-inch-high curbing. We waited for some real cyclists to pass by in the bike lane before riding home along the walking path. I thanked The Boyfriend for being kind (and dorky) enough to ride in the walking path with me. If any of those real cyclists did spot him and recognize him, I'm sure once they saw my bell and kickstand, that explained it all and he got a pass.

Peanuts

A couple weeks ago I went out into the yard to pull some dead flowers out of their pots. I actually don't mind dead flowers all that much and am usually not in a big hurry to pull them out and admit autumn's victory, but I had a few that had turned to mush, and I was sick of looking at their slimy, depressing leaves. So I yanked them out, happy to think about what might go in that nice clean dirt next spring. Little did I know, something was going to be planted in one particular pot way before pansies in March.

A couple days later, I stepped out on the back patio to let the dogs outside to do their morning business. As I looked to the left, something caught my eye. It looked like a squirrel had already started digging in the empty pot and left a couple peanuts. I wasn't surprised; we had a small army of peanut burying squirrels that frequented The Boyfriend's pots at the townhouse. I was surprised, however, that this particular squirrel did not even take the time to bury its stash. The peanuts were just lying at the bottom of a nice deep hole. As I went over to either bury them properly or toss them out (I hadn't decided yet), imagine my surprise and horrific, immature disgust when I realized those peanuts were poop--big, fat cat turds. My already tenuous relationship with the neighborhood cats just took a decisive turn for the worse.

Over the past couple years, I had thought a lot about living in a real house and the responsibilities and freedoms that come with it. I thought a lot about our pets--enjoying their own yard, playing fetch, pooping off a leash (hey, after 4 years of dog walking, this is no small thing!). However, I failed to realize that we would be at the mercy of other people's pets. My first realization of this oversight came with our ventures out into the backyard and the humane society-esque greeting that came with them. Dogs everywhere: one big one and so many little ones I'd rather not take the time to list them individually. Collectively, they would still be drop-kickable. I probably hear two barks a month from the big one. The little ones, however, have become the soundtrack of my life, especially now that I work from home. Not wanting to feel left out, another, I would say medium-sized dog, has joined in from a couple houses down, and it might be the worst offender of all. Some of the dogs have started getting used to their new neighbors; others seem destined for eternal feuding. One dog must have recently acquired a bark collar, because now each of its high-pitched, temple-bursting barks is followed promptly by a beep! It actually is kind of funny, and I've started to admire the little guy's tenacity. In any case, that was Other People's Pets Lesson #1.

The cats, however, have collectively been Lesson #2. I know there are at least three cats who frequent our yard. I have no clue where they live, but from the looks of them, they're clearly from all different walks of cat life. One worked its way into my heart early. It's a petite, short-haired black cat with just a few white markings. It mews incessantly if it happens to join you outside, but is annoying irresistible. The Boyfriend and I have been too nice to this little guy, and perhaps our "peanuts" are what we have to show for it. The other black cat, however, has been best described by The Boyfriend as looking like it was lit on fire then promptly dunked in cold water. It looks like a walking comic strip and I probably wouldn't touch it with one of those Animal Planet catch poles and rubber gloves on. After the recent flower pot surprise and our dogs' particular affinity for finding and ingesting the "peanuts" they find in the flower beds, now when we see the cats in the yard we let the dogs out to chase. Any of you who know Kira will know that the success of this approach is dependent upon Apollo. Kira will give chase, but I think she's chasing Apollo with the hope that Apollo is chasing a tennis ball. Kira has been known to roll over when approached by a cat, so she's surely not tapping into her killer instincts.

If anyone has any cat repellent ideas, we're obviously in need.