Knuckle Update - Six Floors Down

Doesn't matter if you're moving six blocks, six miles or six floors, you still need more boxes than you've got.

Now that the Knuckle's been ousted from the rehab whether anyone thought she could handle it or not, it's time to move her little butt down from the quiet independent floor to a more active floor in the assisted living block of the same building. She is still welcome to eat in the main dining room, where the indies and those ALFs who can bring a fork to their lips, gather daily at 4 p.m. like voracious pigeons. In the indie dining room, there is waiter service, cloth napkins, courses served one at a time and a brave sense of civility among the deuces and the four and five tops. There's also a spectacular view of the Clearwater Gulf to Bay Bridge and the ultramarine water it spans.

The Knuckle is also welcome to eat in the ALF's fifth floor dining room, a small spartan space in the lobby of that floor where the atmosphere, while not quite Titicut Follies, is a rigidly lively and slightly surreal version of the dining experience. Paper napkins, tables and walkers in a bustle, no carpet, linen or drapery and one window before which sits a woman who has been sitting there since lunch. Instead of the fresh-faced teenage waitstaff of the first floor, here we enjoy cheerfully screaming aides who alternate service with sotto voce yet hilarity-provoking personal comments. To be fair, they do know their residents. In fact, everyone at the Oaks knows the names and personalities of the residents; it's one of the things I really like about this place.

Still, on the Knuckle's fourth day out of Rehab (which means four days out of bed), she's had her hair done, her clothes donned and even a little lipstick added and she's heading for the show.

I'd intended to let her go downstairs with the companion we'd hired and find her friends, while I "supervised" the shift of her big furniture and its placement, but there was in her shrinking aura that sense of anxiety and stage fright familiar to kindergartners on their first day. "I'll be right down."

I found her sitting upright at a table for two working her way through a cup of cream of broccoli soup in the approved style: bring the food to the mouth, not the face to the plate. (That's just so nursing home.)

She plowed through her prime ribs like an 80-year old (the new 60) but she's 92.

Parked her with the her buddies, all lobby lizards, and left her to sort out the new apartment. A job well done.

More as it occurs to me...and there's plenty.

Happy 4th from Delightful Dunedin

The crowd at stadium in delightful Dunedin, July 3. A concert featuring a band with lots of experience singing Jimmy Buffet songs. Even their Van Morrison homage had the flavor of lime. This was a charming way to start the weekend. D and I, her niece, E and E's beau, W and I parked nearby like most others and strolled, beers in hand, into this lifesize stadium, where the Blue Jays play. It had been raining crazy, street-flooding, hydroplaning rain for days but on Friday night the clouds nudged each other off stage. You'll see families and friends playing catch on the infield and the rest of us moseying into seats with fresh beers.

Apres fireworks, we headed up Alt 19 to the causeway for a series of runs: one mile, five mile and 10 mile, ending around midnight.

Dangerous Book - Episode 5

When I finished laying out the plants for tomorrow's planting, I took a long bath, soaking in a sachet of yarrow, rosemary, violets, lavender and valerian. Then I dressed, taking my time. Really, I was waiting for sounds of the croquet party to start. I didn’t want to be the first one out there, like an eager dog with her tongue hanging out. When Billie’s screen door slammed three times and the sound of a tonic bottle being opened caused a general laugh, I gathered my oatmeal cookies and a bottle of gin and went out to join Peter on the verandah steps sorting through the hoops of an expensive croquet set.

Billie’s voice is noticeable. Quiet and lulling, like someone used to being the only calm one in a room full of crazies (and in fact she did used to teach high school Biology). I admire her and will take neighbor lessons from her, but I don’t know that I will know her for long. She and her husband Alan are summery people, the kind you know for a season or a year and then remember fondly. They played blue and orange.

Another couple arrived as Peter and I were setting out the croquet hoops.

Kate Arundel, who I have met in my official rambles through the Archaeology department where she is a star graduate student but doesn’t act like one. She’s been given a very plum assignment for the May interim session. The department is sponsoring a dig, which she will oversee, on the ground in front of Gorgas (Library) where, during the Civil---oops, War of Northern Aggression---a cadet dormitory stood. She’s modest about the project. “They’re always digging stuff up. We never find anything, but it’s good practice.” She played green ball.

Kate’s husband, Jacob Cline, is almost her opposite in temperament, but also strong in appearance. He’s low lying, stocky and red. Red tempered too, I think. Bit of a pontificator, but since he’s in law school, it makes sense. He’s the guy who reads the rules before leaving the house, but then leaves them behind, so we all have to trust him and his memory. Not that there seems to be any reason not to, but…. He played red.

Which left Peter and I with yellow and black, the brightest and the darkest.

I spent the evening with these couples pretending every so slightly that Peter and I were also a couple. Had the feeling he was also pretending. When we were alone at the drinks table freshening Veronica’s gin and tonic (yes, she’d dragged down a folding lawn chair and was watching with Phoebe), he asked me out.

Would I like to get together for a movie or go for coffee. Safe things. “ Lunch,” I said, because we both work on campus and lunch is the safest date of all. “Sounds good,” he said. We agreed to meet by on the steps of Gorgas Library early next week and watch the start of Kate’s archaeological dig.

It doesn’t matter what we do because we share friends and can see each other for a long time within the crowd and that will give us a chance to get to know each other and keep an eye on each other and be friends.

Dangerous Book - Episode 4

Let me describe the look and layout of Monnish Court. At a glance, two sorority houses appear to be facing off across a scratchy, keyhole-shaped lawn. These buildings have two stories in the center and are flanked by single, one-story units on either side. There are tile-floored verandahs fronting the main part of the building, each of which contains four, one-bedroom apartments. Each of these apartments has a small, screened back porch leading into the kitchen. I live on the first floor, right. These buildings are perpendicular to the street. A third building, consisting of a string of one-story apartments, faces the street, which is shady with well-grown oaks. The complex sits well back from the sidewalk and although completely visible and entirely accessible (a decorative red brick wall and wrought-iron fence serves as its entrance), there is a weave of invisibility about it that may be the result of its age or its resemblance to some kind of institution. Certainly, there are never any “For Rent” signs in evidence or the usual litter of college housing.

Throughout the afternoon I was aware of a man and woman in their early thirties trotting back and forth from the parking lot to the ground floor apartment that abutted our main building. I’d been vaguely aware of them pulling up in their rental truck and of friends carting in boxes and lopsided lamps. One man carried a television with the cord dangling dangerously near his feet. He could so easily trip. I called out to warn him, but he survived the two steps up and disappeared within.

I was smoothing the earth when one of them walked toward me extending his hand. Still kneeling, I clasped it and he pulled me up. He had snappy brown eyes and soft hair I wanted to smooth. Unlike the other man, this one did not wear a wedding ring.

“Dig anything up?” he asked. His nose was delicate and his flexible mouth worth memorizing.

“Yes,” I said, pointing to the edge of the veranda where I’d laid the blue bead, the nails and the bracelet.

“Veronica said you needed some help.”

“I’m fine,” I said, wondering how on earth she’d ---

“She called me at Alan’s,” he explained. “She’s my aunt.”

The loan of a man. She’d remembered!

“I’m prepping for tomorrow.” I said, indicating the waiting assortment of herbs and plants.

“I’m Peter,” he said.

“Nora.”

“We’re setting up for croquet this evening,” he said. “We’ve decided it’s warm enough for gin and tonic.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Come on out, okay?”

“Love to!”

Wow. Thanks Veronica. I owe you one.

Dangerous Book - Episode 3

As if on cue, Phoebe returned in a clean dress wearing a sunhat the size of a fruit bowl.

“I’m going to help you pick out your plants,” she said.

Bypassing the local stores, we headed to the university’s arboretum sale where I learned we were too late for either very exotic and popular plants but could make a nice garden of herbs and flowers each, according to Phoebe, enhanced by powers I’d probably need at this “transition point” in my life.

“What makes you think I’m at a transition point?” I asked.

“You’ve moved from a big city to a small one. If you were in Tuscaloosa as a student, I wouldn’t think much of it but you’re not. That suggests you’re retreating somehow.”

“I’m not sure retreating is the right word, or maybe I just wouldn’t want to admit defeat. I consider this move a kind of sidestep. I want to breathe a little.”

She nodded. “Not too much, though. Small places can suck you up and university towns can be dangerous.”

“How’s that?”

She stopped picking at a basil long enough to answer slowly. “Too few people of the kind you want to know. Too many cocktail parties. The changes here are shallow. But don’t ask me what I mean by that because I don’t know. Do you know the word ‘churn?’”

I nodded, taking the plant from her. I thought of the coast line at home on Long Island and the rougher shells and pebbles that bounced and beat against my feet when I stood too long in the shallow water.

“University towns have a lot of churn,” she said.

The secret to change, said Phoebe, once we were back at Monnish Court, is intent.

Per her direction, I planted the following in short rows:

· chamomile for headaches

· marjoram to banish sadness

· lavender to see ghosts and “attract men for sexual purposes”

· rosemary, which, when worn on the head, helps memory, wards off thieves, protects travelers when crossing the sea, alerts the mind and zings up a pot roast

· Oregano for pizza, lemon balm to help stop one from dreaming and thyme for purification and the curing of nightmares.

· Sage for cooking, healing and prosperity.

· Yarrow: “Where the yarrow grows, there is one who knows. Love for seven years.”

I’d take that seven. It would be more than I’ve had so far.

· Basil: to inhale!

Change and prayer require effort. I have come to believe that prayer and power are the same. Both require effort, intent. Neither should be used for evil. As I was arranging and re-arranging, Elizabeth (aka Mrs. Moth) walked across the large and shabby lawn at the center of Monnish Court to stand behind and watch me. (Really, if you want to make friends, buy a dog and plant a garden---you will be overwhelmed.)

Mrs. Moth is a frail and convalescing ghost, stick arms and dowager hump. Her skin and hair are faintly purple. She reminds me of a ficcus I kept that never flourished, but somehow survived.

She handed me a small foxglove in a plastic pot. I don’t smile easily, but this gift raised one. The foxgloves were the hardest to find at the Arboretum sale and I thought I’d lost my chance to have one. They are very southern, gorgeous and seem to reward both abuse and neglect.

“Find a place where it will get full sun,” she said watching me with a critical eye. She’s either been a gardener or a high school teacher. “Blooms like bells,” she said.

As a result of this gift, I changed the shape of the plot from a rectangle to an arch and placed the foxglove in the center.

Dangerous Book - Episode 2

April 12. Holy Thursday 11 p.m.

“You’re never going to get anything going with those azaleas in the way,” said Phoebe. She watched from the porch, holding my little dog Juniper on her bony lap.

“Forget it, the roots go down forever,” I said.

“Sure you can,” she said. “Just chop at them and pull.”

The azaleas might have been dying, but their hold to the earth was tight as rigor mortis. By the time I hit the root ball of the first plant, Phoebe had wandered off, leaving Juniper asleep on the chair. I would have rested after dragging what felt like a corpse over to the dumpster, but knew that if I stopped, I’d never start again.

So I kept digging. The second one, not as tenacious, seemed to release itself eagerly.

And there were distractions. Neighbors I’d yet to meet greeted me with flattering interest. The graduate student who lived upstairs asked what I was doing, seemed to search his mind for an opinion, grunted and moved on, perhaps in search of one. Professor Sergeant stopped with his dog, Astible and offered to take Juniper for a walk.

Professor Sergeant lives across the hall and is in many ways a perfect neighbor. It’s unlikely we’ll ever know each other; he’s well into his forties and tenured. A different sphere, but he’s cordial and we have our dogs in common.

It doesn’t matter whether I want him to walk Juniper or not. My silly little dog loves him and follows his every command. She even likes Astible, which is unusual. Juniper is usually quarrelsome with dogs her own size.

Once the azaleas, the stones and the endless roots were dug, I knelt over the plot, which had expanded to the size of two sofa pillows and raked at the dark earth with my fingers, uncovering small treasures lost or buried. Among the inevitable handful of iron nails, I uncovered a blue bead the size of a marble and a gold link bracelet with a single charm–a baby’s head with no inscription. The bead, a Turkish “donkey” bead signifying good luck, had rolled from under a clutch of small rocks. How long it had been buried there I’ll never know. Yet how clean it was, I thought, rolling it in my palm, as if it had been suspended among the stones. The bracelet, however, had been invaded and knotted by grass roots and took some doing to untangle. Had it been lost, buried, or hidden? And by whom? I put them aside, thinking to ask Phoebe when she’d re-emerged.

Once the azaleas were up and gone, the roots cleared and when I’d dug as deep as I could, I mixed in ten pounds of manure. By now the worked-over earth was as supple as cookie dough and I was enjoying myself, no longer struggling. The plot was mine.

Veronica, walking past from the parking lot, stopped, startling me with her butter voice.

“Honey, you should get a man to do that.”

“Ma’am,” I returned, “If I had a man, I wouldn’t need a garden.”

“I’ll lend you one,” she said.

There was something about her wide wet eyes, the eager open look of hers that uneases me. I returned to my shovel with sense of panic. She departed.

When I’d done, I wiped the tools, restoring them to the storage shed. Returning to my little plot, I knelt before it, scanning the space. It is the size of two lovers lying side by side. To my left the pile of bricks I’d collected from around the complex wait for their arrangement. Now, I needed some plants.

Off the Grid: 10 Things About Week 8

I'm not sure what's happening to me in these eight weeks. What is eight weeks anyway? Two months. Most of a quarter. It takes about a month to change an old or develop a new habit. I've yet to commit to a real life off the grid as I'm still exploring my possibilities. Fact is, I'm no entrepreneur. My energy levels are so affected by the layoff (even though I don't miss my old job), the heat, the rush to Florida and the, oh-how-to-put-it, "grief on toast" sensations of losing my mother one step at a time, that I'm not sure of anything anymore. Can I list 10 things I'm sure of?

1. A girl in the park this morning, taking surveys about the green market asked what attracted me to it. Color: I held three giant sunflowers and two tomatoes, music, scent of coffee, bread from The Bread Garden, "All the senses!"

2. Existence. We're here. We're here. Wave.

3. I would revise this notion "We're all in this together." to "We're individual boats bobbing in the same ocean. At any given moment, each one of us is absolutely alone. This can change in the second it takes to spot another boat, but we are each traveling to that far horizon in our own little skiff.

4. The taste of watermelon equals the taste of summer.

5. Surrender is winning. (thank you Cowboy Junkies)

6. Despite the key words, those jobs you don't apply for are those jobs you don't want.

7. There's an unacknowledged section at the top of my canvas where ideas for the future hover like a waxing moon.

8. Catholics are raised to be emotionally reactive. Taking on the pains of the mother is kin to taking on the pains of Christ. This, however, is a stalling tactic and circumvents real life.

9. I am motivated primarily by love.

10. Someday this will make me weep.