Category Archives: Home & Garden

Recycling redux

Grieving and tossing shit out keep each other good company. In this house, saturated as it is with sorrow, I’ve been surprised at how casual decluttering has become — like it’s a matter of showing up and puttering, going away for a while, returning, and chipping away some more. Order begins to show.

Sorting like this normally requires a ruthless resolve. Not long ago the stakes would have felt higher. There’d have been resistance to overcome. Now, as I’ve recently mentioned, most stuff doesn’t feel important. How could most objects possibly matter right now, truly?

And so. I cleared a small studio bookcase and a bin jam-packed with paper and notebooks.

First, I consolidated all the tags from my craft show days. For some reason, I’d stored them in three separate places. Tags listing an old website or email, I recycled. The rest now reside in a couple of boxes under my ironing cart — tidy and out of the way.

I threw out a couple of old sketchbooks. Do I hear you gasp? One was filled with kid drawings of the wild and barely-able-to-hold-a-marker phase. Lots of stickers. More critically, they weren’t signed. Not knowing who authored them made them easy to let go.

A sketchbook of my sister’s that had one drawing in it? Out. I have a lot of her artwork elsewhere. For some reason, I had saved a sizable folder filled with her teaching xeroxes for a gravestone rubbing project. I kept a few pages for collage and recycled the rest.

I ripped out page after page from some of my old craft idea notebooks. Instructions from a gel-printing class. Rudimentary cat drawings for felt toys. Very basic sketches of patchwork ideas.

Came upon a quote from The Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell, a series I was obsessed with in college. It was weird to find now because just a few days ago I mentioned the books to Ken and how I ought to re-read them.

In other news, we went to the Farmers Market again yesterday (yeah!) where I picked up fresh corn and a beautiful head of purple cauliflower. For another veggie side, I blistered some shishito peppers and drizzled them with honey. Ken grilled chicken breasts with BBQ sauce. They were tender and tasty. We ate in front of another episode of Foyle’s War.

Today’s an unscheduled day. Days without any plans unnerve me a little right now — another symptom of grieving, I think.

Maybe I’ll type up some of the scenes I’ve written recently (or even not so recently). It’d be nice to be able to find them two weeks or two months from now. It’d be REALLY REALLY nice to be working on something. Lately, I can’t seem to settle.

One collage, five turkeys, and a rat

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Top half: color xerox of photo of an old heart quilt

The basement was cool today. Also Ken fixed the AC. Ordered and then installed a new motor, did I say? We had a beautiful sunset tonight.

Meanwhile, there’s drama in the suburban creatures chronicles.

After feeding the turkey family for a week or so, the mother took to coming over to me when I went outside. This thrilled me, naturally. I’d say, “Hello, Mama!” and then go get the seeds. Eventually the four chicks would come over too. “Hello, Mama! Hello, Chicks!” Eager. Unafraid.

After the turkeys finish, doves, cardinals, and squirrels pick at what’s left. Today for the second time, a rat joined in.

Ugh. Really?

I tried putting the seeds in two big bowls so I could stow whatever was left back in the garage, but the turkeys wouldn’t go near them. So I spread the seeds on the lawn as usual. And there came the rat again, happily eating alongside the doves and the squirrels.

I know there can’t just be ONE rat. I also know I cannot give up feeding my turkey family. So what to do? Tolerate the rodent, knowing there are likely many more nearby?

To be continued.

Hot, hot, hot

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Super duper hot out there. 98 degrees now. Real Feel 107. I watered at 7:30 this morning so that the stream didn’t evaporate. We walked Finn early.

Big tear day. I never know why exactly, although at this point the better question might be on the rare day that I don’t cry, why not?

I’d chop this one up if there were four sensible quadrants, but stuff would be sacrificed and I’m not willing, so chaotic it will remain!

We quilters love to show off the backs of our work, don’t we? MR — I hope that doesn’t make me a “braggy quilter”!

I had fun extending patterning across seam lines with appliqué and stitch (like the flowers and butterflies). I also took the liberty of outlining a house or two to make them more distinct. I’m gonna call this one done.

“Blackbird and the Full Moon.”

Flowers and the other side

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Will spring in all its heady flourishing from here on out remind me of this season of sorrow?

Next year when the peony buds unfist and open and droop under the weight of their beauty, will they force a count — another year without Danny?

My neighbor paused on her way out for a walk recently to tell me that this plaster figure reminds her of Danny. I had always thought of it as female, but now I see it. I see him.

Speaking of the dead, take a look at the sweet little blue flowers of the forget-me-not. Like so many plants in the garden, they tell a story.

After my mother died, I dug up a couple of healthy clumps of forget-me-nots from her yard and planted them out front. With a name like theirs, I thought them a perfect memento — until they all disappeared, that is. They lasted two seasons, maybe.

My mother died in 1996 which means I counted the forget-me-nots as a loss in 1998. So imagine my surprise when this spring, some 28 years later, a brave and lovely forget-me-not showed up among the astilbe.

How does nature do things like this?

With a sense of wonder and gratitude, I moved the little clump to where it would have more room. It lives under the golden chain tree now.

Hi Mom.

We fly to California tomorrow. Since about February, I’ve often been waking between five and six a.m. It’s 5:31 as I type right now. You know what that means, don’t you? In Los Angeles I’ll be waking between 2:00 and 3:00 for at least for a handful of days.

No matter. I can’t wait to see Billy and Cary and the dog Lila and to dwell for a while in that beautiful California light.

Bunnies, chops, apology

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I planted some of my morning glory seedlings under this planter. Two days ago, we discovered that the rabbits had eaten half of them. It’s not a loss I take lightly — hence the chicken wire.

Any morning glories that I planted in pots are now elevated. Others remain vulnerable.

Sometimes the rabbits’ destruction doesn’t appear to have anything to do with eating. The strewn plant matter gives the feel of a murder scene.

Stupid me. I didn’t put this geranium up on a side table after noticing the decapitation of a big blossom yesterday and this morning all the flowers were gone. Scattered about on the stone as if by a psycho killer.

After last summer when not a single iris bloomed, I’m happy to report there are flowers this year! Over by the black walnut tree too.

A new slaw recipe went well with pork chops and mashed potatoes last night. Toasted walnuts and crisp apples for variety.

These were thick chops, but I still could have overcooked them. It happens more than I care to admit. The magic method? Searing each side for two minutes stovetop, then sticking skillet in a hot oven (400 degrees) for 12 minutes. They were perfect. (Notably, I cut my chop up right away — had I let it rest as recommended it might have lost some juicy tenderness).

One sultry afternoon driving past the lake this week, I was flooded with the felt sense of Danny as a toddler. The days when “excavators” were “ekabators” and “snacks” were “nacks.” It wasn’t a memory per se, but rather a sensory experience of sharing the muggy heat and slight fear that sometimes preceded a thunderstorm. Holding him close.

One woman in our Parent Suicide Loss support group has been writing letters to her son for seven years. She has twenty notebooks full of them. I thought I’d give it a go and this week penned three letters to Danny. In the first two, every sentence began, “I’m sorry…”

Pattern and Outrage : Dee Mallon

cloth, justice, writing, and food