… I have seen some astounding things as I sit with coffee on the porch. Clearly we are easing into autumn. A bit brisk. I’m tempted to toss on a sweater but it’ll be hot before I know it. As I look around … the grouping of basil, swiss chard and sorrel is still lush in their containers, thriving, and I chuckle at myself as I say fiendishly, “I might eat you tonight!” The strawflowers with their orange-gold heads seem harbingers of the approaching season. I will try to save their seeds though saving seeds has never been my issue; it is remembering to plant them in the spring.
A white butterfly flits around me perhaps annoyed that I have come out. I take moments to reminisce but I also make plans for the day. A hawk circles overhead, just one, not a pair. In the neighbor’s yard, sunflowers sway. The neighbor’s garden is usually very ordered but the sunflowers are planted randomly, and only lately as I watched a family gathering did I realize he did it for his young grandchildren.
Well, alright, while I do enjoy the sounds – the wind rustling the tree leaves, the blue jay’s raucous cry, and even the more distant rumbles from the highway – I need to be on that highway making my way into work. Work has been a tether and not in a bad sense. So away with me. Good morning, world. Have a good day. 🙂
I must say that it is hard to eat these days. No worries. I’m not wasting away. My survival instinct is pretty strong and when I need to eat I most definitely track down some food. What seems to resonate most right now is intensity of flavor. I’ve been disappointed a few times of late when I order something spicy and it is not spicy to me. I’ve been reading how taste buds, as well as appetite, can be affected by grief/loss. Mostly I cope at present by thinking about food creatively. I look out on the porch and see what’s there. The basil I gifted but the jalepenos I’m using. And then there’s the hot and spicy oregano. I’m trying out a marinade of oregano, garlic, olive oil, lemon juice and so on on some salmon tonight. We’ll see.
Given events of late I did not fertilize the tomatoes on the porch enough. Lots of foliage that smells wonderful but not much fruit. Just one ripe one so far and I decided today to purposefully slice and drizzle it with olive oil and white wine vinegar and some sea salt and black pepper. You see what I mean? Intense flavor. It was a lovely appetizer. And yes I know it was only one small tomato but the exercise I think helps to reawaken the taste buds.
Didn’t photograph the baked salmon but the portion I had was good. Needed more hot and spicy oregano and maybe some lemon. On the porch the pepper plant still flowers, there are tomatoes that are small and green and I will endeavor to give them a bit more love. Tarragon, rosemary, thyme and the various oreganos. As the summer season progresses I think there will be plenty of opportunities to be creative and stir the tastebuds … and still to gift on occasion. 🙂
Now growing up in southern Virginia, fishing was pretty common. All the male members of my family fished though somehow they neglected to take me along. So it wasn’t until I moved to Boston and met this quirky fellow who loved fishing that I finally held a fishing pole. That’s right, I held it. But to Steve’s consternation I didn’t move it. He tried to explain standing there with the line in the water watching the sunlight play upon the lake was not the same as actively trying to catch a fish. I told him, “I think I’m into the zen of fishing.” He just shook his head. Luckily for Steve, a good friend connected him with a group of men who’d been fishing together for decades since they were children. A spot opened up and Steve fit. About every two years they’d gather and make their way to a fishing hole in Canada. It was probably one of the most joyous experiences Steve looked forward to later in life. One of the gentlemen shared this photo with me in his memory.
… there is no rhyme or reason to the gardening on the porch/patio. It is a riot of colors and styles.
Each morning I rise to peek out and see scattered dirt as the squirrels rise earlier then I do and begin their daily quest for food.
I’ve let the backyard go. The only that will be harvested from down on the ground will be garlic planted last fall. When I look down there is the afternoon light I can see many happy baby bunnies nibbling at all the weeds and things that are overgrown. I do appreciate the perennials that have come back and have no bunny-appeal.
While I do feel bad about the yard, I am glad about the porch. There’s an increasing number of patio-specific fruits and vegetables and its been fun learning about those. And, of course, of course, there is still room for plenty of basil for future pesto making.
What I continually learn on this journey with Steve as a cancer and stroke survivor is the power of meaningful and functional engagement with the world. Do a physical exercise just to do the exercise, no matter how good it is for you? Nope. Need to help do tasks to feed family and friends as you’ve done all your life? Oh heck yeah! Someone was fiercely determined to grate the roma tomatoes for a big batch of no-cook pasta sauce. He gave it a good effort but those tomatoes were tough so out came the knife. Big chunks to toss in the blender along with garlic and celery. Success with the slicing … except, as I turned around, I noticed someone eating the tomatoes and so his sous chef position was temporarily revoked.
Later we did the taste test. I wanted to add salt (I always do) but Steve said, “It’s good as it is.” And so that’s how we served it up for dinner with some items on the side, sliced leftover chicken, sauteed mushrooms and mozzarella cheese.
Steve has been through another health event and as we sat at the table at home tonight awaiting a friend to provide an assist to go to bed I remarked, “Oh my goodness gracious, next week I have to talk to students about art in religion with a focus on stained glass. What the Hades am I going to talk about?” He said nothing. Then I had a genuine revelation and I said, “Gosh darnit. I’m going to do what you do.” Then his eyebrows perked up as in, “What the Hades are you talking about?” And I said, “Remember years ago when I was fascinated with what happens when light shines through water and creates patterns and you taught me what was happening, caustics, and then there was a photo exhibit in a youth community center and I made you participate with one of your such photos and these two young children walked by and instead of you telling them what they were seeing you let them look and then asked them, What do you see?, and one boy said, I see the back of an alligator! And you said, Well, that’s very astute of you. And the boy said, What does astute mean? And the two of you wandered off to the cheese tray table as you explained how observant he was.” Steve smiled and said, “Yes.” And I said, “My dear, I believe it is in your spirit to be mentor. Do you agree?” He did agree. And as we sat there he helped me pull together my oh, so brief presentation. I read it back to him. Genuinely, I said, “Okay, this feels good. That’s not bad, is it?” And he said, “No, dear one. You’re good.” And please believe me if I was off track that person would tell me so. 🙂 Time does fly.
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.
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.
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.
In Bangalore, I used to walk to the local Indian school, St. Anthony’s Boy’s School. Sometimes I took a rickshaw. The driver would be peddling on the street and I would wave him down. It was cheap and I had enough pocket money. I thought school was thorough and complete meaning subjects were covered thoroughly and completely without any gaps or holes. But when I went on to a British school in Bangalore I discovered there were holes in what I had been taught. It didn’t matter. I just loved learning and reading. Given that my father ran a library there were plenty of books at my disposal. My parents were open to me reading anything. There were no PTA (parent teacher association) meetings. No judgements. My father probably gave me the most books on all sorts of subjects.
The dachshund would meet me when I walked home from school. My general routine after returning home was to put on outdoor clothes and go climb a tree. There were not so many other kids around. Sometimes a few. We lived on Richmond Road, a street with lots of bungalows. White people generally lived in these bungalows, mostly Brits. They worked for the state I guess maybe civil servants.
after first communion
My dad had a jeep as part of his job. On Sundays we would drive to mass at the Catholic church. I remember the building as spacious. Sometimes he would drive me to the library where he worked. That seemed spacious to me too. Everything seemed spacious to me back then. Even our bungalow.
I remember the bungalow had a veranda. I remember lots of plants on ours planted by the gardener and by my dad as well. My father liked to garden growing all kinds of plants edible and not. I remember everything from African violets to basil.
In addition to the dachshund and siamese cat, he owned parakeets. About four or five blue parakeets in a green cage. He also kept fish in a standard fish bowl. They were just plain old fish not very interesting to me. He also kept two horses. He loved animals. He’d grown up on a farm in Nebraska.
I fell from a mango tree and my dad looked at my arm and decided it was broken and took me to the doctor. I also fell while climbing a wall. A piece of the wall broke off in my hand and that’s how I fell. A stranger, an Indian man, picked me up and took me up to the house. Broke my arm that time too catching myself with my hand and elbow beneath me. But aside from events like this I felt safe and happy in Bangalore.
I enjoyed the food. My first glass of water there I drank not realizing there were peppercorns in the glass. Overall the food was not spicy. We had a cook. He would make me fried chicken. When my father was entertaining he would take over the kitchen. He greatly enjoyed cooking. From him I learned how to make pesto. He was a good cook.
My younger sister had been born in Italy. My mother had her hands full with me, a baby and my father and all our animals. She was very beautiful and always smelled nice. Like flowers.
Words + Images 