Butterflies are busy in the garden. They love zinnias and wildflowers.
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Because I Said So...
My grandmother always told me that you “pay for your raising” by having your own child. She went on to explain that in order to really teach you a lesson, God gives you a child with at least a few of your own traits. My father must have been a willful, stubborn child because he certainly produced one…me.
We often disagreed over the simplest things. When I was a very young child it was always boundaries. He once sent the dog after me because I was about to cross the road. The dog knocked me down on the lawn, which was a much better fate than getting knocked down by a car in the middle of the road. Of course our country road only saw one or two cars a week, but it was the principle that mattered to Dad. Another time he drove out to the bus stop at the end of our road to make me return to the house. I had been told by both my father and a doctor that I could not attend school for a week because of a deep cut in my foot. Of course I missed my classmates, so I headed out on my crutches to join them. Didn’t quite work out the way I had planned. I went back to the house and stayed there because Dad said I had to.
Dad and I must have disagreed about food from the moment I was born. I can’t remember many meals that didn’t include at least one food I disliked. At first I was quite vocal about my preferences. Later I tried to be devious. Mom never allowed a dog in the house, so I couldn’t sneak food to my boxer. Instead I tried to sneak food to her, or hide it under something. Of course when I attempted to hide liver under my mashed potatoes Dad simply asked why I hadn’t finished my “favorite food”. How do you answer that? “I’m not hungry” was never the correct reply because then I had to endure the “children are starving in China” lecture. How dare I be ungrateful? I ate what was on my plate because Dad said I needed to.
As I grew older and stronger Dad expected me to work more on the ranch. I wasn’t a lazy child, but I didn’t like working in the cold months of winter or the hottest weeks of the summer or weekends when I knew my classmates were going to the park or reading in their rooms. Dad was always working right there next to me, but sometimes he asked me to do things that I didn’t think I could endure. Driving a tractor, managing irrigation pipes, dragging a heavy cotton sack, loading a trailer with grapes, and working in the drying yard were not activities on my “favorites” list. Once Gran came to visit while we were loading a trailer and shouted at Dad, “Bobby Lee, you do know that’s a girl!” Perhaps he let me slack off a little after that, but I still worked nearly every weekend because Dad said he needed me.
I almost felt sorry for Dad during my teen years. I didn’t openly defy him very often, but I certainly gave him some headaches. He was very protective and had very precise expectations. I once returned from a date ten minutes late and he was pulling out of our driveway to look for me. Many discussions of my preferred plans ended in his presentation of a totally different plan, followed by a simple reason: “Because I said so.” I wonder if today’s teens ever hear those words, or if they realize how much they will one day miss them…
After I became an adult Dad and I still disagreed from time to time, but he respected my right to make my own choices. He let me marry a man with “clean fingernails” (not a farmer or mechanic), he came to accept that I drove a Ford, and he understood that I needed to live in California for a while. He didn’t use his favorite reply unless I tried to refuse his offer of help or one of his too-generous gifts. Then he would just smile and say, “Yes, you will…’cause I said so.”
Balancing Act
I did something foolish Saturday and I’ve been chastising myself ever since. My husband and I attended Caddo’s annual Heritage Day Celebration. It’s one of my favorite events and I love to photograph all of the activities, especially the parade. In past years, way past, I stayed from 8am to 4pm. As my age has increased and my abilities have diminished I’ve reduced that by several hours. Last year I left at about 2pm. This year I really should have left at 1pm. And I should have taken a couple of morning breaks. And I should have packed a lunch. And I should have known better than to stand still for thirty minutes. By 1:30 I was doubtful that I could walk the two blocks to my truck. Thankfully I did.
It took me much longer than usual to recover and that resulted in a few anxious hours on Sunday. Those of us with ongoing conditions and chronic pain walk a fine line between meeting a little extra challenge and doing something that causes further injury or permanent damage. My normal, everyday pain level is two. My pain level for Saturday evening was four. Sunday was three. Monday morning I was back to two and saying a prayer of thanks.
Some people have suggested over the past few years that perhaps I need to take more pain medication. I currently take enough to keep my pain manageable, but if I totally blocked my pain signals, how would I measure the progression of my condition? How would I know when to rest? Obviously I had a bit of a problem determining that on Saturday. If I had been on a stronger medication I might have stressed my body beyond its ability to recover. I firmly believe that my best course of action is to listen to my body and try to do all things in moderation. Life is a series of choices and each day is a balancing act between comfort and pain, joy and sorrow, wisdom and foolishness. I just need a reminder now and then…
Fifty Years
Tomorrow the Caddo High School class of 1968 will be having their 50Th reunion.
Wow! Fifty years!
I suppose I’m looking forward to it…and yet.
I haven’t seen many of my classmates since we graduated. I moved away and many of them did the same. We have nothing in common other than previously enduring four years of school together.
The classmates I really bonded with are still friends and we have kept in touch on our own. We’ve never needed an event or a date on the calendar.
I spent a lot of my high school time with students from other classes, especially those in the senior class. I really miss the “whole school” reunions we used to have every four years.
My high school years were a roller coaster of high achievement and poor decisions that lead to personal pain and tragedy. I’m not sure I want to chat with people who might recall only the latter.
I’m not really nostalgic about my high school years. I always felt like a bit of an “outsider” at CHS. Even though I had visited Caddo many times, I didn’t enter high school until February of my freshman year…after everyone else had bonded and adjusted to classes and joined groups. I married in the spring of my junior year. I graduated in December of 1967 and did not participate in all of the exciting events of the last semester. I walked in line and received my diploma with my classmates, but being a college student, married, and pregnant made the experience a little anticlimactic.
My current physical condition makes it difficult for me to function at evening events. Added to that challenge will be the fact that tomorrow is Heritage Day, an event I’m very nostalgic about and have always attended unless I was out of town or in bed. By the time I walk around and enjoy HD for several hours I may not be physically able to visit with my former classmates. I’ll make an effort to see most of them during HD, but that may be the extent of my “reunion” with them.
I have to affirm that I AM very happy to have lived long enough to celebrate being out of school for 50 years. Several of my former classmates have already died and others are suffering with health conditions far worse than my own. Those of us who are still here should say a prayer of gratitude.
The Simple Joys of Life
I have a binder of my mother’s columns and I often read them when I’m seeking guidance or inspiration. This morning I read one she wrote about retirement and the simple joys of life we appreciate so much more as we get older. How perfectly appropriate. A couple of days ago, as Gary and I were walking to our truck after purchasing some plants, I thought about how wonderful it is to once again be able to put a new plant into the ground and watch it grow. My broken foot is healed and I can dig, carefully, with my shovel.
I can also go for a walk and do my own shopping and drive my truck.
I can see the birds enjoying our yard and watch the butterflies land on the morning glory blossoms.
I can hear the neighbor’s dog barking at her cat, and I know that the man who lives three houses down the street is mowing his back yard- I can hear the mower.
I’m going to have oatmeal for breakfast and enjoy a glass of orange juice with it.
And while I’m cataloging and celebrating the things I can still do, while I’m considering that many of my friends are in far worse physical condition, I am also reminded that recent disasters have left many people homeless. I have a place to sleep and food to eat and a vehicle to drive. I have friends and family members to assist me if I require help. I am humbled by my many blessings.
It’s difficult to watch the greed and lust and envy displayed on television and social media each day and not wonder why so many people fail to appreciate the simple joys of life. Perhaps they don’t realize how very fragile we are and how quickly life can change…
Nature in action...
Last year I bought these seeds from Wildseed Farms.
Tropical Milkweed
Asclepias currassavica (Asclepiadaceae) Bloom is orange.
An introduced species of the subtropics that has naturalized throughout North America. Considered an annual, easily started from seed. The alluring, bright orange and yellow flower bouquet are concentrated in compact clusters at the top of branching stems. An important nectar source for Monarchs and a wide variety of other butterfly species, pollinators and hummingbirds. Prefers full sun to partial shade and is not extremely temperamental about soil types. Blooms all season, transplants well, deer and rabbit resistant!
Average Planting Success with this species: 80%
Height: 3 - 4 feet
Germination: 15 - 45 days
Optimum Soil Temp. for Germination: 65°F - 75°F
Sowing Depth: 1/16th"
Blooming Period: April - First Frost
Suggested Use: Butterfly gardens, meadows, tall borders, disturbed areas.
Miscellaneous: The stem, when broken, produces a milky white sap characteristic of this plant family. With age, plants will become woody. Tropical Milkweed can be cut back and will resprout from the plants base rather quickly.
I was not thrilled with the results...until recently.
The plants have been small, but they have certainly served their purpose. AND, as a bonus, although the caterpillars eat the leaves, they grow back.
Now I have this lovely chrysalis on my patio. I haven't found any others, but I know they are out there.
The third group of caterpillars is happily munching.
Painted Faces
The ancient Egyptians and Romans wore makeup to designate status, ward off the “evil eye”, and make themselves more desirable to the opposite sex.
Many African and Native American tribes painted their faces to represent accomplishments and to create fear in the hearts of their enemies.
Some early American women painted their faces in order to appear pale and therefore signify that they didn’t need to engage in outdoor labor. They had slaves or a staff for that!
Our great-grandmothers painted their faces to emulate their favorite actresses. In fact, many of the cosmetics they used were created specifically for the movie industry so that faces could be filmed easily and show up more clearly on the big screen.
My mother wore makeup because it was a standard practice for her generation. It was unusual to see a woman without makeup. Even if she didn’t wear it out in the cotton fields she would not have dreamed of attending church or going shopping without it. And she always carried a mirror, a powder compact, and a tube of lipstick. A woman never knew how the weather or her activities might alter her makeup. She had to be prepared.
This brief timeline of the role of makeup was prompted by some television commercials I saw last week. I looked at the young women wearing ridiculously exaggerated makeup and found myself wondering why a generation that promotes diversity, equality, confidence, achievement, and respect still hides their true identity behind a painted face.
Some would answer, “I like makeup. It makes me look better and feel better.”
Better than what?
Better than the way you look without it?
Doesn’t that imply that how you naturally look isn’t good enough?
That’s how I often felt when I was 20-40. My face wasn’t what I wanted it to be and my attempts at making it over weren’t always successful either. Even if I wore makeup, I didn’t look like those models who wore it on television or on the posters at the department store. Ironic that I spent money and time and effort on painting my face and I was seldom more satisfied with my painted face than I was with my unpainted one.
This photo of me with dyed hair and too much makeup was the result of letting a friend try her hand at creating a “glamour look” for me. I’m smiling in the photo, but the makeup was washed off as soon as she went home.
I stopped wearing makeup about fifteen years ago. It was difficult at first, but over time I’ve learned to appreciate my natural appearance and enjoy the simplicity of my “wash and go” lifestyle. Plus, I’ve saved a lot of money to spend on flowers.
I don’t judge or condemn other women for wearing makeup or dying their hair or decorating themselves in a dozen other ways. However, I hope they don’t consider me a drop-out from the tribe of women for not doing the same.