Soft Spring Days

“I am going to try to pay attention to the spring. I am going to look around at all the flowers, and look up at the hectic trees. I am going to close my eyes and listen.”  ~Anne Lamott

There is something so soft about a spring morning. It is a feeling unlike those felt in any other season. Renewal, hope, new beginnings, new life.

Soft sights of the colors of early flowers and new grass and trees putting on new leaves. The sun regains its warmth and brightness and brilliance.

Soft sounds of birds chirping, hummingbirds whirring, gentle breezes rustling the new leaves. Bees buzzing. An owl greeting the day with his haunting, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”

Soft sensations when those gentle breezes touch bare arms and legs for the first time in months. Turning a pale face toward that soft spring sun and marveling in its warmth. Bare feet joyous at the feel of green grass.

Soft smells of earth newly turned by hopeful farmers and new mulch in the yard. The scent of lilacs and wisteria floating on those soft, warm breezes.

Feeling the heart rate slow. Smelling the smells. Experiencing the sensations. Taking in the sights. Fully appreciating the softness of spring. This is hope and happiness and thanksgiving.

The Rollings Curse

 

It’s my Mama’s fault. It is a Rollings family trait, in fact. Or maybe a Rollings curse.

I can not escape it, and it drives me crazy — especially given the fact that I married a midwestern farm boy who cares not one thing about maintaining ground that doesn’t make him money. And he is not Southern, therefore, he doesn’t care what people driving by think of him and his overgrown yards.

When I pull into my driveway and see grass that needs mowing or beds that need mulching or weeds that need pulling, it immediately puts me in a bad mood. And, to paraphrase one of my favorite “Steel Magnolias” quotes, I’ve been in a very bad mood for 20 years — since the day we bought and built on this almost-impossible-to-maintain land. Honestly, I’m ready to move to a condo. But that would be a whole new argument with the midwesterner who thinks he has to live in the middle of nowhere and have no neighbors within seeing distance.

A little over 20 years ago, we bought this old 20-acre farm/home place. It really is a beautiful spot out in the wilds of northern Orange County, North Carolina. But it has been a battle and a series of divorce threats since the day we moved here.

Three of the 20 acres are for the house, and the rest is for — stealing North Carolina writer Celia Rivenbark’s phrase — “Duh Hubby’s” business. Those three acres near the house need to be mowed and weeded and halfway taken care of by someone. And that someone is, for the most part, me.

I work long hours at my day job. I do freelance writing and a radio show as side gigs. I volunteer with an animal rescue. It’s hard to find time to keep up a perfect yard. Especially when said yard is surrounded by huge old oak trees that make growing real grass almost impossible, and given the fact that I have little help. But I am genetically wired to want nice yards.

Duh Hubby is not thusly wired in any way, shape or form. He won’t do anything that requires getting off or slowing down the mower. Honestly — he mows around fallen tree limbs. And don’t get me started about him thinking it’s OK to leave downed tree limbs in the yard to begin with!

I’ve hired help a few times, but when I do, that cheap-ass midwesterner I live with throws a fit because landscapers charge more than $30 to work all day in someone else’s yard. Don’t get me started on this subject, either.

Anyway, when I got home today — at about 5:30, with a thousand things on my mind and to-do list — I could not stand the way the place looked. So, I told the aforementioned midwesterner to go get the mower and gas it up for me. He will, usually, act as crew chief, but that’s about the extent of his lawn care efforts.

After mowing the highest and nearest-to-the-house grass, I pulled weeds and put down some mulch. All while the son-of-a …… man I married …. sat in the house watching Netflix.

The longer I worked, the angrier I got. At one point, I was yanking weeds by the handful, and calling said man every evil name I could think of. Also while cursing myself for being bullied into not using Roundup because everyone on social media says it kills the bees and we should all protect the bees. Lord knows, I don’t want to harm pollinators.

I did, though, as always, think about my Mama’s last days on this earth and both smile and feel sad at the same time. Today is April 10. Mama died on April 23, 2005. She had had lymphoma for some time, but was doing OK with it. Until she just had to work in her yards, and, at age 80, use the weed eater. She contracted bronchitis from the dust and what-not kicked up by the tool, and that caused the lymphoma to go crazy. While in the emergency room, the night before she died, a nurse asked Mama a few questions. At some point, Mama told the nurse she had been working in the yard and using the weed eater. The nurse shook her head and said, “My goodness, why in the world were you weed eating? That’s why God made Roundup!” I will always and forever remember that little exchange.

Even while smiling and getting teary-eyed over memories of Mama’s last hours, while also cursing and pulling weeds and wondering how in the world I’m going to live without Roundup today, I also blamed Mama — and her siblings — for making me so OCD. All eight of Bob and Annie Rollings’s young’uns believed having a nice yard and keeping the house clean were a must.

Many times, I heard, “You may not have much, but you can keep what you’ve got clean.” And, during my early 20s, when I was living in what had been my Pa-Bob’s house, I got busy and let the grass get a little high. My Uncle Furman — Mama’s oldest brother — visited just to say, “It’s looking right snaky around here.” So, of course, I got out and mowed the yards — working past dark to make sure things would look good the next morning when Furman rode by on his way to town. It’s a Rollings thing. It’s a curse.

I’m not sure how much longer I will be able to keep the massive mess around my house in check, but I do know I’ll try as long as, to quote Mama, “there’s a breath of life in me.” If I don’t divorce that midwesterner and move to a condo first, of course.

 

A Reminder to Get to Work

It has been a while — a long while — since I posted on this blog. I started it to force myself to write for fun, but I have once again been remiss in that effort.

A Facebook friend reminded me today, though, that I need to write for fun, and for the entertainment of others. Her extremely kind words gave me incentive. She told me how much she enjoyed reading the last post on this blog — which was over a year ago! She also told me how she enjoyed my personal columns when I was at the newspaper.

I am constantly amazed that people remember things I wrote in The Courier-Times. It has been nearly eight years since I left the paper. To say it makes me feel good to know people remember my ramblings is an understatement. It is downright humbling, to be honest.

The lady who nudged me today is a good writer herself. She’s a few years older than me, and has some sweet, some salty, some always savory little nuggets of life and love and loss and wisdom and humor to share. I have told her a couple times that she’s a much better writer than she thinks, and I’ve encouraged her to write her life story — in her own way — so that the rest of us can enjoy it.

Ultimately, that is what it’s all about. Sharing your talent so that others can smile or shed a sweet tear or empathize or identify. Each of us has a talent for something. It may be drawing or painting or singing or dancing or writing or speaking or making jewelry or creating crafts. Or just the ability to tell a good joke or say the right words at the right time. Whatever it is, we need to make time to use that talent for the benefit of others and ourselves. We all need to do, on a regular basis, what feeds our souls. And if it helps others at the same time, that is a huge bonus.

Time on this earth is limited. At my age, I’m beginning to really realize how very limited our time is, and I am truly trying to make the most of the time I have left. I do that by pausing to marvel at a vivid sunset, and by listening to the birds sing on an early spring morning, and relishing every second I spend with the people I love, and reading or listening to good books every moment I can and just sitting outside in the sunshine or on the couch with my pooch snuggled beside me. And I do it by writing. But, I need to do it more by writing and sharing that talent with others. I’ve been reminded that I can do this, and my resolve has been rekindled.

So, I will thank Mrs. Prilmer Jane for nudging me to get back at it, and get to work.