I purchased not a ton, but a lot, of greenery. One bundle was composed of six branches. I collected six pinecones and gave the mass to Steve along with a birch branch, inviting him to create an indoor decoration. If there’s one thing, in many different ways, Steve teaches me, it is patience … and that sometimes less is more. He sorted through everything and selected just three branches with the same type of needles and just one pinecone. “For the center,” he said.
I think I bought the bouquet of strawflowers maybe 2 or even 3 summers ago in the Copley Square Farmers Market. So darned expensive but the vendor knew he’d caught me. I wish I had the patience to grow them myself. Maybe one day … 🙂
A new restaurant has opened not far from where I work. I paused in my journey this morning to peer at the menu from afar. Words rang out. “Hey, Nigger. This is where people walk.” Startled I turned toward the voice to see a young white man striding past. Now I’d seen him earlier in the morning. He was clearly strung out on something so there was no need to say anything in return. But as I returned to work I was startled that the words of a junkie, someone clearly in need of some help of some sort, could touch me so. Probably doesn’t help that I am currently immersed in historical research about the profiling and imprisonment of free Black seaman in the antebellum south.
Nor does it help that as Steve and I continue to make our way in this world that people continually, immediately, assume that I am either the paid home health aid or the overnight caregiver. And so then the onus is on me to calmly explain that I am his wife. The onus. I know of a lovely older Black woman in an interracial relationship and she shared that in the retirement community where they reside she always carries her resident card to prove she belongs there and is not “just” a visiting care giver.
We live in a time of unprecedented whitewashing where people in power are trying to normalize outright racism and bigotry and even more so foment deep and abiding ignorance about this nation’s past let alone its present. People are not questioning their assumptions. Race does matter regardless of what a super rich and powerful white minority are trying to assert.
Just some Sunday musings … best get back to my research so that that forgotten story can be shared soon.
Here’s a challenge. In this age of quick reads, read this whole poem, Let America Be America Again, by Langston Hughes. Indeed try reading passages out loud. Written about 90 years ago, it could have been written today. And therein lies the sadness and yet the hope. Read on …
Just as we were entering what I like to call “the woodwright shop,” the room where we sat up a mini-woodworking area so Steve can do small projects upstairs instead of in the basement, I noticed the fall of sunlight across the room. “Wow, look at the ferns!” I kind of thought I was talking to myself but to my surprise Steve started rolling that way. I didn’t expect him to reach for the sunlit fern fronds with his left hand but he did. When I asked him what they felt like, he said, “Feels like feathers.”
They are Rabbit’s Foot Ferns. And somehow I’ve amassed a tiny collection. I think it happened during the pandemic when I just wanted some inexpensive greenery in the house to clean the air, add some humidity, etc. And they sure are forgiving when I forget to water. Their furry rhizomes spill out over the pots and from them new leaves emerge.
There’s some serious repotting that needs to be done as soon as I find the right planters. Hmmm. Perhaps I’ve identified Steve’s next small works woodworking project, some nice wooden planters. We’ll see. 🙂
There is a blue jay that likes to sit upon the porch and pound peanuts into any bare earth it can find in one of my pots, most often the pot of marigolds. A dove will occasionally land and then fly away, a fleeting guest, not like the mating pair that tried to nest on the porch during the pandemic. Now that I’ve added some pots of long willowy grass, lemongrass and zebra, sparrows will do a curiosity flyby but have not yet landed that I’ve seen.
I’m tempted to put out a water feature but that might attract more than birds. I am quite pleased with the porch this year. It was garden therapy i thought for Steve but it has surely been for me as well. I tell people I think I have reached capacity in terms of adding more containers but even as I look out the door now I can imagine one or two more containers just ‘cause. It is primarily a culinary space with many pots of basil, mint, lavender, thyme, rosemary and oregano. I added the lemongrass for height and texture though I know it is used in cooking as well.
I keep telling Steve the violas are edible but that’s a lost argument. Most attractive to me at the moment is the lavender. I’m sure for Steve it is the basil which he just pinched yesterday and we made a small batch of pesto for dinner.
I think of it as a mini-healing garden. I learned of the concept on my journey with Steve these past few years, sitting with him or by myself, in the rooftop gardens of different hospitals. Due to recent mobility challenges Steve had not been able to sit out there though he helped plant many of the containers. I call those Saturday mornings at the kitchen table surrounded by dirt our indoor gardening time. He pots the plants and I position them on the porch. He could only look out but of late we’ve learned of these things called suitcase ramps and voila he is able to sit in our little garden.
He doesn’t crave it the way that I do. We’ve discussed the fact that, in Virginia, I grew up in a porch culture and he most certainly did not. When he does sit out there I hope there is some benefit to mind and body. It is mid-July and the violas are fading. New opportunities await for filling some containers.
The world unexpected lost a lovely soul this week, the artist Carol Moses. She was an inspiration to me and certainly nurtured my creativity. She will be sorely missed. I am grateful to have known her and to have had the opportunity to interview her years ago for this 2016 post.
When my father was reassigned to Vienna we had to say good-bye to all of our friends. We had a party with my school friends. I “planned” it but my Ayah did all the work. The Ayah took care of me and my sister and made sure we weren’t stolen. She tucked me in bed at night, and chased the animals out. She got me up each morning. She was dark of skin with long dark hair. She would get me out of trouble and keep me safe. If I broke something, like a nice glass or cup, she often took the blame for me.Â
Hadi was the butler and oversaw the house and whole compound. He reported to my father. He was kind and gentle. One day I decided to cook a steak. I had to cook something. I was in the kitchen. I don’t remember why. He watched as I cooked the steak guiding me. When I thought it was done he said no but I didn’t listen. I insisted on eating it and it made me sick.
Let’s end with the Maharajah. My first impression of him was that he was fat. I mean he was a very big man to a small boy. My dad took me to work at the library that was located in Coorg. And that’s where I think I first saw him. He and my dad and I took a walk around his place. I wouldn’t call it a palace. Big compound is closer. The animals were loose in the compound. There was an elephant, gray, probably a male but I don’t know for sure. Probably a giraffe. He hunted. He shot a mother tiger and captured the cubs. There was a batch of those that I saw and played with. Four of them. They were very small. They would fit in my hands if I held them now. I think I told you they were white but they weren’t white solidly through. I don’t remember what year that was but I saw him more than once. I know he met with Queen Elizabeth in 1961 as she toured India. I remember seeing her driving in a convertible. I was looking down from the roof of the library.Â
I can’t think of these times as unusual. It was simply my childhood. We moved on to Vienna for a few years. I joined the Boy Scouts, an international troop, and received an award for knot tying. I had weak ankles and a doctor their prescribed ice skating. My mother taught me some fancy ballroom dances and my father tried to teach me guitar. There I was introduced to sachertorte. It is still one of my favorite desserts. Like I said, simply my childhood.
Words + Images 