Toofin

I am usually of the horizontally-laid-back supine staring-at-the garden persuasion until I lose my mind and heart to The Next Art Project.

Right now this N.A.P. is hypertufa, or lightweight cement planters and their plantees. Don’t let the acronym fool you. This is not restful.  The prefix is apt. It ain't called hyper-tufa for nothing.  

Some background:  Tufa is natural limestone that mixes with lake or spring water rich in calcium carbonate forming rocks light enough in weight that farmers were able to carve troughs and move them around to feed and water their animals.  When they ran out of the naturally occurring light rock stuff, they started casting about, as it were, for a suitable alternative. 

Portland cement was invented in an English stone mason's kitchen by mixing finely ground limestone with clay.  I think I made “healthy” holiday cookies out of just such a mixture in the 60s.  Ex called them Christmas rocks.  Edison played around with Portland, developed a special kiln and built a number of houses with it.   His mix was used in the original Yankee Stadium and was deemed so strong, that they left his parts (no, not those parts) when they did an early renovation.

Some modern history:  I had gone through a cement period (no, not THAT kind of period!) some time ago. I was into making stepping stones, cement birds' nests, stone hearts.  Some of them still exist.  Cement is like that.  I went on to other wild creative endeavors.  I say wild, but you should know that I seldom leave my bedroom, house, or garden. But the excitement of creativity feels wild in my heart while it's happening. It's torture. It's enchanting in the best and worst senses.

Lately, cement planters, totally planted with plants I've grown for them, began haunting my dreams.  I wanted to be "toofin" again. I began collecting cactus and succulents .

Anyway, toofin' commenced.  (Never thought I'd say that to anyone.) I’m making double batches of the light-weight cement, growing the sucs. 

The cows came home, and I'm still planting the plants and mixing the cement. 

I forgot that Florida used to get serious rainy seasons. I grew up in the 60s. I live in the moment.  I'm Here Now. Short-term AND long-term memory are shot. I blame the 60s and menopause. 

 As I begin writing this "hurricane" Debby is churning around and making it rain more than it has in months. We're in Day 4 of Windy Torrents.  I'm scared for my little drought-loving succulent plants but cozy indoors. I wonder if I'll go back outside to puddles of mushy cement and drowned plants.

I'm walking Chance-the-dog with our raincoats on.  Hey! Has anyone invented tiny slickers or umbrellas for our green friends of the floral persuasion?  Do I sense The Next Art Project? Ugh! I'm exhausted.

CATAPALOOZA JOURNAL

It’s not that I don’t like cats. I do. It’s not the cats I hate, It’s my neighbors’ addiction to them. These people just have too many cats roaming the neighborhood. I’ve had a not-so-newborn kitten come strolling out of my garage. Neighbor said years ago that his cats had all been neutered. But the population explosion keeps bursting into my garden. Loads of cats. Lolling in multitudes on Neighbors’ front lawn, the street, my yard. Ambling about. Doing Things. Loud things. Gross things.

Neighbors in the house next-door have dozens of cats who frequent my yard. Who can blame them? But. Where are they peeing? And where are the cats peeing?

Birds no longer visit my yard. I’ve found the occasional dead one. Maybe they just died of old age. I hope so.

Chance, my cute but obnoxious Bichon, barks his head off whenever anything new happens anywhere on the earth. This morning on our walk, he crazy-barked at Leo, an old grey cat, named after Leonardo – Titanic – DiCapprio. That’s how long we’ve known this cat. Anyway, Chance is always shocked to see Leo.  My dog apparently joins me in living in the moment. Cats stroll by when I’m in my garden and scare the bejeezus out of me. I do not have pet cats so these encounters are always a surprise. Like Chance, I startle easily. I'm usually startled if I'm not asleep.

A walk became a drag recently when I had to haul Chance past one big cat elaborately digging, kicking, joyously pirouetting, and burying “treasure” at my garden’s edge. I shuddered and kept walking. On our return, we rounded the bend to see the same cat in the middle of my garden spraying Very High into the air. A disgusting fountain. When I was done gagging, I acquired boxes of mothballs and spread them on the border of our adjacent yards to try to make an invisible yard guard. Cats got gone for a day or two, but they’re back now and the garden stinks of mothballs so bad I’m avoiding being outside anyway. I’m just so pissed in so many ways!

More kitty porn: Two screaming cats midgarden going at it – “it” being something not good. I chased them down the driveway, out to the street corner, lobbing anything I could find. Scott heard the cat-erwalling halfway down the block and came running to chase the two farther away.

“What’s going on with them?” I asked.

“Two males fighting,” he replied. “It’s how we do!”

I’ve addressed my concerns with the Cat Rescue folks who said they’d stop by and see if they could offer some spaying information to my neighbor. I, too. have considered neutering, but Neighbor runs too fast. Rescue folks’ concern is for the cats left behind when their owners can no longer care for them, and the community is left with a new population of homeless cats.

I called Animal Control and learned that Neighbors are, apparently, allowed to have as many animals as they can take care of within their home. But there are leash laws. Even for cats. I’d have to register a complaint, but I don’t want to be a snitch.

I’m keeping a broom handy to chase furry brawlers out of my garden. Chance barks at the broom.

I decided to talk to Neighbors and say “There are leash laws. Keep your cats inside or I’m calling Animal Control.” I’ve been to their door and they wouldn’t answer the bell. I called but of course they didn’t pick up the phone. So I got to just leave my message. The cats disappeared by the next morning. I was so happy and relieved.

This lasted two days. I imagine the animals, so used to being free to roam, put up quite a stink inside, demanding to be let out.

Then:
One cat Two cats. Three cats. Four.

The parade through my garden resumed in full force. Kitty cartwheels. Clown cars full of cats. I didn’t know cats could moon and give the finger.

Yesterday I came upon a squirrel in my backyard that had been separated from his head. I don’t think they just fall from the trees and break into ghastly pieces.

Animal Control again: They would come and pick up the pieces if I bagged them. For a price.

There is no amount of money.

They said to dig a hole and bury them.

 No.

Exterminator finally came and picked up the furry remains. (A special dispensation: This is not what they do.)

All of my chasing and lobbing, whining and kvetching, gagging and grumbling and grousing and cussing had been to no avail.

So I lost the snitch compunction. I made the call to lodge a formal complaint. Animal Control Guy came and talked to me first. He said these people usually are not able to clean up their act until it costs them money. We might have to catch their animals on my property, confront Neighbors with the catch, whereupon they could bail out their pet(s), or see them sent off to the pound. We could start with Control Guy just talking to Neighbors. He went over and disappeared into their house and was there for some time.

I never heard the result, but the problem seemed resolved. For about a week there were no cats outside. Then the slinky shadow, bolting from under Neighbors’ car to their slightly opened door. One speeding silhouette so far. I just don’t think Neighbors are capable of stopping the onslaught. But now I have hope and a plan.

I’ll eventually put up a fence to keep the cats out of my yard and the toxic thoughts out of my head. Until then, I can handle (and even enjoy) a passing cat or two. When the kitty count rises and I’m again the involuntary party-goer in my own garden, then it will be time, again, to catch and confront.

I never want to fight. Confrontation is not my thing. I know that my neighbors will be broken-hearted and angry. But I’ll live with that, like I’ll live with Cheshire Squirrel heads haunting my dreams.

More On Grief

Even though I'm deep in the midst of this first anniversary of the worst holiday season ever, I can still wake early, have my time on the cozy bedroom couch, listen to Sakura, the music I've always listened to on rainy days, look out my opened-in-December Florida windows over the petunias in the flower box to the rainy garden and write to you.  I have peace - yes, and even joy - in these moments.

My bathroom floor and How it Changed My Life

Geez. I bet this is the ONLY BLOG IN THE WORLD about a bathroom floor. Well, MY bathroom floor, anyway. Some time ago, years now, I thought I'd "do" the floors all over the house – creating something on the cement slab below the crappy carpet and linoleum.


I thought I'd start with the smallest floor in the house and go from there. That was the bathroom floor directly adjacent to my bedroom. (What kind of feng shui is that?) I should have taken that First Hint: It turned out it was nearly impossible to lift the existing floor (what WAS that? Rubber tiles?) It took weeks to finally get it up,(can’t get past this without adding: Oooh! Dirty!) finally down to cement. Got some cement paint, painting the floor blue. Then started this project that took about 10 years to complete. It became an under-the-sea dream sequence of everything fishy I could think of. I don’t know why that theme, other than I was looking downa lot, sitting over water (if you know what I mean…) I made stencils and acquired a lifetime supply (okay, Molly’s lifetime supply) of nail polishes. There were musical octopi, a giant squid (again, thank you Molly), starfish, bubbles, tributes to lost friends. It was glorious. And gave me something to look at as I sat…

I knew it was time to finish it. There was no space left. Every species was covered. The last bit was collaging pictures of my grandbabes’ little round faces into one of the big bubbles. It was So Sweet! I knew I loved it too much. I know it’s not good to be too attached to material things. I had a bad feeling about finishing it. I postponed and tried to get around it. But The Thing Was Done.

I went to the Screw It Up Yourself Place and explained the situation: A 10-year work of art in a tiny, nonventilated, bathroom. It needed to be sealed and preserved. The nice man sold me fiberglass sealer used to patch boats. Waterproof. Shiny. Toxic.


It was bad news from the start. Difficult to open, difficult instructions. The initial smell was SO BAD, I thought, this CANNOT be RIGHT. At every step I thought Stop Now. This is WRONG! I knew it was going to smell bad until it cured, so, planned a trip out of the house for the day. This little bathroom is, as mentioned, feet away from my bed. I have trouble sleeping anyway, and knew it needed to be dry by bedtime. The directions said it would cure in two hours.


I planned to apply the stuff, get myself together, and head up to Tampa to spend some time with Aforementioned Daughter. But the application process was mind-bendingly wrong wrong wrong. I couldn’t breathe. There was no getting myself together. I forgot to be mindful. I forgot I had a mind. I just thought GET THIS FINISHED AND RUNNNNN!

After a long day of staying away (and pleasant visiting) I came home and realized my worst nightmare. When I opened the front door, it was like Dorothy opening the door to Oz, but she was in Hell instead. The house smelled so bad, you could practically see the fumes in the air. I grabbed Chancey and spent the night at Tessa’s. Surely, it would be stank-free by morning!


But no. It was unbearable. My office was in the bedroom. The whole house smelled, but it was the worst in there. I sat and tried to work, to tough it out. Toughness didn’t happen. Headaches and nausea, fear and loathing did.


In the hours, then weeks that followed, there were endless phone calls with the company who manufactured the gluey, chemical I had applied. Picture a Bull (and the crap he might produce.) I spoke to Go-Screw Yourself. Lots of managers and their managers, and their information gathering, always ending up with, as my little son used to say, “I didn’t do nuthin!” I wasn’t looking to blame. I was looking to get my life and my house back to working order. The stink hung in the air for weeks. The floor never set up. It was tacky to the touch. On their advice, there were more layers poured. It was poured too thin. It needed to be thin to set up. Pour another layer and it will all dry. It’s on too thick. It needs ventilation. Ventilation won’t help. Parts of the tiny floor did dry and set up. But others were still peeling and bubbling. Fans were brought in. Doors and windows were left open, closed and left ajar in different combinations to try to direct the toxic stench out or contain it.


My office moved to another part of the house. I tried to sit and type, but even there, it was difficult with eyes and nose shut. Don’t even ask how nose is kept shut…


I was sleeping in the guest bedroom at the other end of the house and hanging around outside a lot. I lost weeks of work. I paid handymen and prayed we would not all meet in a cancer ward sometime in the future or in hell.


The jasmine bloomed outdoors as I put in serious swing time trying to figure out what my next move might be. The garden once again saved me. Rocking myself on that porch swing was the comfort I needed to try to form some kind of a plan. The garden remained ready and willing to transport me out of myself.


Finally, I called in floor guys. Montgomery Floors came in and cased the joint. (have I mentioned I’m from NJ?) They were pretty much flummoxed, too. They had their crew come in and sand and peel everything down to cement again. My artwork went lost in the process. So, the art work was gone, but The Stench survived! The Boss arrived with some two-part treatment usually used in apartments where someone has died and left death-molecules, which really seemed like what we were dealing with. Chemical stink stopped immediately, I was concerned that it was just masked by the new flowery scent. I’m not picky. Really! But smells are subjective. I usually can’t stand most perfumes or air fresheners. I could have lived with this, but didn’t want to just have to live with this clinging, unadoreable smell. I was wrong. After a day, the thrill was gone. And ALL odors. I was back to unscented scraped cement!


I headed down to the floor store (“Flo Sto?) and picked out beautiful granite they laid (I know!...) in a checkerboard pattern. It was wildly expensive but it had to be spectacular to cover my losses. I now can sit mesmerized, able to look down and ponder beauty again. It’s been months and I still love it. I step on the cool mountain rock and am uplifted. I still mourn my artwork, but it lives in my screensaver and the millions of pictures we took when I was about to begin the death-defying cover up.

So Good won out in the end. I had always lived in my bedroom. But now, forced out, other rooms in the house were re-done and re-purposed. I now work in the new office at the back of the house. Where once my little girls played and slept, I work and stare out the window. Sleep still happens in this room, but that’s another story… I spend mornings in the sunroom. I write on a regular basis here. I watch far less TV and sleep better at night. Charlie Rose, my pregnancy induced sleep-deprivation- state late-night companion for years, waits (too patiently) in the DVR until I’m ready for him. We meet in the living room instead of the bedroom. (another loss…)

I loved my life before, but this is a new, improved and expanded one. I was forced to stick with it and re-imagine. I still grieve all kinds of losses, but am starting to rejoice again. I’m grateful that This Too has passed. Stank didn’t stop me. It just slowed me down and redirected things.

A letter about miscarriage

To my (new) dear friend:

Here is a way for the sadness that I’ve gone through to maybe finally do some good:  I can speak to you from my own experiences.   I had multiple miscarriages. They were a long time ago. I can tell you that the sadness dulls with time.

After suffering in the same ways that you are now, I find myself having raised children. After all that sorrow I did end up loving some kids into adulthood. They eventually came to me and through me. Those were the kids who were meant to grow up with me.

So, allow me to reach out to you and tell you how sorry I am – and sad- and that I truly do know some of how you feel, that you are understood,  and it really will be alright in time.

A really really dark Florida winter

Wrote this some months ago.  I'm better now.  (See ourgardens blog) Friends are still in hell, but we're all carrying on. 

Began the season with the loss of a dear friend. (adding to a year of grieving for another good man already in progress…) Can it be that the garden is a reflection of the horrors going on inside me? No. I don't think I'm that powerful. I know I'm not powerful. If thinking the good thought was enough, we'd all be in Paradise right now. But frosts happened, more than one. Even more than two. And they're still coming this day of the supposed "last frost date" in the Land of the Flowers. I've stopped being able to look out my window, usually a rescue tactic from inner turmoil. It's been so cold I haven't been able to put in much swing time. Chance and I do squeeze in some moments, each of us in our quilted, padded coats. (Okay, so his is PINK! He can handle it. HE knows he's a boy…) (Mine is blue, now that I mention it, and my name IS Andy. And I had no hair for the first 3 or 4 years of my life… but I'm not confused, at least not in THAT way.)


But the frosts came. And the air is just cold. And it's totally gloomy. I think the inner gloom gets reflected in that I just don't have the patience or the interest to be out there. Even if it was sunny. Nothing is growing anyway - but the weeds coming up through the mulch.


The poinsettias brought home from the grief house are waiting to be planted, still alive, on the front deck. The garden looks more dead than alive to me. I guess most of it will come back in the spring. Or some of it. I have trouble caring, really. My closest confidants have descended into the world of pain. I share their grief as much as I can, but it is theirs and too exquisite to touch. My suffering is huge to me, but it pales in comparison to what they are going through. I can't add to their grief, anxiety, just pain in general. Where is my flood of negativity supposed to go? Writing is good. Good thing nobody is reading this. (If you are reading this, then, thanks - and stay nonjudgmental, will you?) Anyway, I hope the gloom will ease some with the coming of Spring.


I do have flashes of just being here, just now, in this moment. And, if I can just use my eyes and ears, and not my heart or memory, I can see (and hear) that Life is going on in it's own beautiful perfect way. But while Life itself is perfect and knowing, I am not, not in my superficial, ignorant self, and I AM suffering and my friends don't need my stuff added to theirs. So I'm writing again.

On loving the vibrant deceased

 

So hard to let them go. And then the natural thought: why should I go on? And the answer is, would they have ever stopped going on if they had had a choice? Would they not wish to keep experiencing whatever this is? This Life thing? Aren't you missing them, in part, BECAUSE the Force was with them? That Lust for Life? That Gusto? And didn't they love you with all their hearts? Would they ever think that you would just give up because of your broken heart? To think of not continuing with every bit of joy you might one day find again, once you crawl back to the surface is to say to them, what was all the excitement about? It's only Life…