May Book Report: The Summer Before the War

I’ve an enduring fondness for all things English.  Set your novel in the English countryside and I can just about guarantee that I will pick up the book.  This month’s read met all my requirements for a happy read: Helen Simonson's The Summer Before the War is set in the English countryside in the summer of 1914, in the expectant months after the Archduke Ferdinand has been assassinated and just before the European continent goes to all-out war.  

The book begins as the story of an independent young woman, Beatrice, as she seeks to make her own way in the world by working as a Latin teacher in the small English town of Rye.  Beset less by her own doubts than the sexism of a society that treats unmarried young woman as a problem to be solved, her independence seems to flummox her family and most of the small town.

She finds an advocate in the form of one of the school supporters, an independent-minded middle-aged woman named Agatha.  As the summer wanes and the town makes preparation for war, Beatrice finds her way forward as both a school teacher and an independent woman.  I found this book to be an easy read.  There were some sparkling moments, especially the early reflections on women and the struggle for rights at the start of the 20th century, but it wasn’t exceptional so much as it was good; a nice read for the end of the long and busy days of May.

Impatiens and Impatience

The first warm days of the season find me impatient to be outside, as if this time is fleeting and I need to soak up the easy days before they disappear.  Then I realize that it’s May and I have several months of warm, easy days ahead of me.  My urgency eases., though I still appreciate the lovely that is May.  I linger on the front porch to admire the flowers.

May, I am charmed.

Rhododendrons

When I moved into Sassafras House, there were large and established rhododendrons on either side of the porch.  Last year, the rhododendron on the west side began to look a bit peaked.  By March, the verdict was in: the rhododendron had died.  I mourned for a bit but as Spring began its tentative arrival, it seemed clear that I must take action.  On the last weekend in April, T and I cut out the dead plant and replaced it with a new rhododendron.

We also staked up the rhododendron on the other side of the stairs, to give it space and make it easier to walk up to the house.  Since then, things have looked quite splendid on both sides of the steps.  the older rhododendron is having its usual splendid Spring.  

The new rhododendron is getting after some pretty impressive growth of its own.  It may never catch up, but it’s making quite an effort, urged on by my impressive peony.

My front steps are welcoming.  That’s happy!

Separation

Time is flying past and I am just a few days from being the parent of a high school graduate who is excited to run off to college and start a new adventure.  My heart is full and I am proud of him.  I am systematically preparing for a separation that we planned and desire but one that I still expect will feel like tearing a bandaid off a wound.

Then I turn on NPR or read the New York Times and see stories of my government deliberately separating children from their mothers at the borders of our country.  Here I am barely able to think about giving my 18 year old a last hug and leaving him with a supply of everything he could possibly need (you should see the lip balm and Cliff bar collection he’s already acquired, not to mention soft sheets and pillows for his bed) when I leave him at college and meanwhile my government is deliberately and cheerfully yanking small children from the arms of their mothers then jailing them both in separate places to deliberately inflict misery.

It is unthinkably wrong and it is being done in the name of out nation.  We are all complicit.  The ACLU is organizing a petition and doing their best.  Send them your support and tell your elected officials that we won’t stand for this policy.   Then call ICE and demand to know where the children are: 866-347-2423.

A Backyard Celebration

May came on like gangbusters and my backyard turned green and quickly filled with lush leaves and grass.  I’m an early riser and these days the sun is tipping the sky with light as I come downstairs.  There is a window at the landing on my stairs and each day I stop to admire the view.  The backyard that greets me from the stairwell window is lovely, a daily treat that I never grow weary of enjoying.

I’m looking forward to the Summer season in this backyard, sitting in the shade and otherwise enjoying some much-needed rest. The next two weeks will be busy and then we will celebrate JT's graduation in the backyard where he spent hours and hours playing as a child.  It's a fitting way to mark the close of his school days and that it will be followed by some time to rest is a most happy development.

My Secret Garden

The flowerbed on the edge of my driveway at the east side of my house gets morning sun, but is otherwise in the shade.  For years, it was edged with hostas and had two azalea bushes and some ivy.  But it was mostly overpowered by a bossy rose of sharon bush that grew and grew.  I wanted a greener bed, one with more hostas and less rose of sharon.  Two years ago, I set out to have just that.  This Spring the patch has been lovely, a treat I view in the morning and enjoy in the evening.  Because it’s tucked up against the house, it’s a bit of a secret garden and I find this quite pleasing.  

The bed is verdant green and the variegated and elephant-eared hostas are coming along quite nicely.  T gave me a new azalea and the shade of pink is just right.  The ivy needs some trimming and training, but that’s a job I enjoy. 

Gardening is my reminder to be patient and enjoy the surprises that Mother Nature can spring upon me.  Some years, that’s zinnia beds that have been consumed by bunnies and squirrels.  Some years, it’s peaches and apples that are gobbled up by the local wildlife.  And some years, it’s the way a project I daydreamed comes together just when I need it.  

That’s happy!

A Full Heart

Posting has been light for the last few weeks.  I’ve been busy, as the school year always is in May.  There has been splendid weather to enjoy; this Spring’s blooms seem especially lovely.  But none of that has really kept me from writing.  The main barrier to me sitting down to write has been brimming full heart I carry with me wherever I go.  

Just a few days ago, JT finished his last classes at our school.  In the coming weeks, there are Senior activities, the sports banquet, prom, and graduation to celebrate. These are exciting times for him and I am eager to soak it all in and enjoy the moments.

But alongside the celebration is the reality that we are closing a chapter together.  Gone are the daily commutes to and from school.  Past are the days when I will catch a glimpse of him in the dining commons or across the quad as I walk to class or a meeting.  Just writing these words down makes it seem more final.  

It’s not as if I didn’t see this coming.  Children grow up and my boy is no exception.  I have so many happy memories of our school life together.  He’s prepared to move on to college.  I appreciate how lucky I am that he is ready.  I am grateful for my blessings.  There is so much about the next chapter that feels exciting and I am looking forward to it.  But as I prepare to watch my boy walk across the stage and receive his diploma, my heart is full.  So very, very full.  

The Tomato Season

A few weeks back, I put zinnia seeds in the ground and dug the holes for the tomatoes I would shortly plant.  To get ready for the tomatoes, I got out my tomato cages and put down some fertilizer.  This past weekend, the tomatoes went in the ground and I caged them up.  There is basil alongside the tomatoes and I'm already planning the caprese salads I will make.

The early stages of a garden are always filled with promise.  I visit the plants every day and watch the forecast to make sure we get enough rain.  I am always excited to see the summer’s harvest and this year is no exception.  That’s happy!

I Live in Hope

I teach U.S. History to 7th graders.  My course starts with the settlement at Jamestown and aims to close out at the Emancipation Proclamation, which is a story of hope.  I end with hope because a whole lot of my course is helping a diverse group of 21st century 12 and 13 year olds to unpack a story that features the original sin of slavery.  I respect the power of the American promise and I believe in it.  I also realize the ways in which we have fallen short of that promise.  In 8th grade, my students will pick up U.S. history at the Civil War and they will study into the 20th century. I want them to be well-prepared to understand segregation, the Great Migration, and the promise of Martin Luther King, Junior.  I also want them to ask questions.

  

The greatest challenge in my class is to help the students to identify and understand the promise of the Declaration of Independence, specifically Jefferson’s claim, “that all men are created equal” and then to make sense of that promise in light of the many ways our nation fell short of it.  

Slavery and the exclusion of women from the promise of the Declaration absorbs a great deal of our time; it has to.  Because as thrilling as Jefferson’s words are, our nation fell far short of them for many years.  We fall short today, as even a cursory listen to Donald Trump’s words reveals.  There are days when I listen to the news and shake my head; there are days when I listen to the news and rage, as I did when the president took up against Mexican immigrants this week, calling some of them animals.

When it comes to slavery, it’s remarkably easy for 12 and 13-year olds to fall into the trap of believing that slavery was introduced into North America because the colonial settlers needed workers.  We separate these issues and identify the reality that labor was needed and that enslaved labor was chosen to meet that need.  This distinction helps the students to identify the racism at the core of slavery.  And make no mistake, slavery was a racist institution.  While its easy enough to understand their co-existence, it’s often a disappointment for the students to realize that the end of slavery did not bring an end to the racism at the heart of the institution.

I am careful when I introduce the language of the positive-good pro-slavery crowd.  The rhetoric of John C. Calhoun is my first vehicle.  In my classroom of racially diverse students, we are precise when we look at Calhoun and his crowd; we never lose sight of the ways that he sought to dehumanize the enslaved people; to treat them as other.  We recognize that the tools Calhoun used to characterize the slave, calling the enslaved people animals instead of people, can easily become the ugly racism of our time.  

And indeed it has, thanks to Donald Trump, whose words are damaging and dangerous.  I’m a woman who is often unrealistically optimistic and this default position of hope has always served me well.  When I taught 7th graders in the atmosphere created by the presidency and leadership of Barack Obama, we all soaked in the language of hope.  We felt proud of an African-American president living in the nation’s White House.

Donald Trump is not a man who brings hope.  In his small meanness, I feel dirty and ugly.  Hope feels elusive and rare, a fading commodity in the bitter stew that is Trump’s version of America.  I tell myself that reason will triumph; that my little group of thoughtful and tolerant 7th graders will win out.  But some weeks that feels like an investment in optimism that is not born out by the reality of daily life in Donald Trump’s mad, mad world and I  grow weary.  But I will not give up the fight.  I will live in hope.

Dogwood Day: Tuesday, May 17

We’ve reached the point of Spring where verdant, lush green is everywhere.  All over town, dogwood trees are transitioning from flowers to leaves.  My tree is no exception.

This stage of Spring is unbelievably lovely, with mild air and fresh colors everywhere I look.  I sleep with the windows wide open and wake to morning color that makes the world seem like a splendid place.  There’s a freshness that makes it seem like all things are possible.  

That’s happy!

Open Rebellion

It starts slowly, so slowly that I never quite see it coming.  Instead of ironing all my clothes for the week on Sunday evening, I toss a few items in the dryer with a wet washrag and consider that acceptable.

The next week, I identify all the knit clothes I own, toss them into the dryer with a wet rag, and skip the ironing all together.

The following week, I guiltily get clothes to the dry cleaner and vow that I will iron the rest.  I do iron those clothes.  But I resent it.

The next week I find multiple excuses to avoid drying my hair and turn up at work with braids or a messy bun in hopes that either will disguise my failure to be a mature adult.  My clothes are mostly ironed, but it’s a job done poorly.  I still resent it.

The next week, I start packing flip flops in my school bag, so I can switch shoes as soon as the school day has ended.

And then a day comes when I get to the car in the morning and only then do I realize I am still wearing my morning flip flops.  I know I should go inside and get school-suitable shoes.

I do get them.  

But I grow weary of grown-up clothes and grown-up efforts.  I want to wear flip flops every day.   It’s May 10 and Spring rebellion is in full bloom.  

Dogwood Day: Tuesday, May 8

In the past week, white flowers emerged on my dogwood tree.

Blooms and leaves emerged for nearly all the trees in the past week.  There is a blanket of tree pollen everywhere we look. and all of the trees have tiny leaves which make up the hazy green of Spring.

Each morning, my backyard is fresh and dewy.  The verdant green makes for a lovely sight when I look outside each morning.  

That’s happy! 

May Front Porch

In the last few weeks, the front porch has gotten a spit shine.  T fixed a few loose rails on the bannister and though I still need to complete some maintenance chores, right now things are looking quite lovely.   Indoor plants have come outside to soak up the sunshine.  They’ve been joined by pink impatiens that are lovely to admire.

May means flowers; bunches and bunches of them, thanks to the Mother’s Day treats T gave me.  There are pink begonias for the planter in front of the stairs.

I’ve hung a flag with a flowerpot to greet the day.

This year’s hanging baskets are fuschias, which are simply splendid.

The table has cheery geraniums and an assortment of other things that make me happy.

May has delivered a lovely patch of sitting outside weather.  I couldn’t be more pleased to welcome the mild days.  I’m making time to sit in the porch rocker and take it all in.  May, you’re looking darn fine. 

The Zinnia Season

Last week’s forecast suggested that the first week in May would bring us some unusually warm days and nights.  So I did what any rational woman would do: I lined up my flip flops and I planted my zinnia seeds.  

Zinnias are on of my favorite things about summer.  Daydreams of picking bouquets from my own garden have carried me through many a dark, cold Winter day.  But daydreams are one thing and getting seeds in the ground are another; getting planted a few days early is a treat.  Tomatoes and basil will go in the ground in the next week; by then tiny flower seedlings will have emerged.  The 2018 gardening season has begun!  

Time’s Witness

At historical sites, trees that were standing when a historical event occurred are designated a Witness Tree and a marker placed by the National Park Service says as much.  T and I have seen this at a host of historical sites, at places like the Battle of Gettysburg and Antietam.  At Seneca Falls, New York, in the yard at Elizabeth Cody Stanton’s home along the Erie Canal, the tree in the left of this photo was there when Stanton sat on her front porch and dreamt of the Declaration of Sentiments. 

I like trees anyway, but the witness trees seem special because they have seen so much and stood through time, silent witnesses to major events. 

In my backyard, I have a patch of iris bulbs that came from my great grandmother’s home in Missouri.  They grew there when my father was a child in the 1940s.  A patch of the bulbs was transplanted when he moved to California in the 1950s; there they grew in my grandmother’s yard.  My father planted them in the homes we lived in while I was growing up.  Eight years ago, he separated the bulbs and mailed me a few of my own.  I planted them in a sunny corner by the garage and waited for flowers.  

Each Spring, the bulbs would put forth green leaves, but I never got flowers.  I enjoyed the greenery and kept fertilizing them, in the hopes that flowers would someday emerge.  A few week’s back, I was checking the garden and I realized that this year there were iris flower stems among the green leaves.

This week’s sunlight and warmth brought more growth.  This morning, I have pretty purple irises to admire.

They are lovely, of course, and made lovelier to me because of their history.   I garden because my father gardens.  He gardens because his grandparents taught him to love stirring the soil and making things grow.  This history of gardening is important to me, a reminder of things that transcend time.  These flowers remind me of gardeners that came before me; they are witness to the gardens my family grew.  They make Spring that much sweeter for the reminder.

That’s happy!

On Teeth and Time

I suddenly became a single mama on a Friday in June in 2006.  Much of that first year remains a blur of heartache, though there are a few stories that are vivid in my mind.  One of them has to do with the first tooth that JT lost.  That June, he had a few loose teeth that he’d been worrying with his tongue for weeks.  Then, well past 10 pm on a Saturday night, his first tooth fell out of his mouth.  He was euphoric and excited about what the Tooth Fairy would bring.  I was horrified because the only money I had on hand was some pocket change and a $20 bill.  Going to the zippy mart with a tired 6 year old to break the $20 wasn’t an option.  So I tucked the $20 and a note from the tooth fairy under a sleeping JT’s pillow late that night. At the time, it seemed like yet another unnecessary reminder of the loss that landed me in single parenthood.  

The next morning he was thrilled beyond measure by his good fortune.  He barely read the Tooth Fairy’s note (it had a pointed explanation that $20 was only for a child’s first tooth with the information that subsequent teeth received smaller rewards).  JT, flush with riches, didn’t care about that.  He told anyone who would listen that the Tooth Fairy gave him $20 for his first tooth.  I would smile benignly as other parents looked at me like the big payout had broken some kind of sacred and secret parent agreement.  I kept the backstory to myself.

As time passed, the story of that first lost tooth makes me smile.  Though it started as yet another sad story of being a mama on my own, I now think of it as a story of redemption.  I survived those early years of being a mama-on-my-own by thinking fast and ignoring doubts, became strong on my terms, and then made a new family with T.  

Yesterday, my now 18 year old son lost his last teeth.  They were wisdom teeth and their removal was a surgical event complete with a post-surgical half-sedated JT repeatedly announcing that he felt great and asking the nurse and the doctor when he could start running again.  He talked so much after the surgery that the nurse kept needing to replace the bloody gauze; I finally got him to quiet down and then I carried him home.  We made an ice sling to keep the swelling at bay and started the Netflix.  

I've been a mostly-patient nurse and he's had pain killers, jello, milkshakes, yogurt, and scrambled eggs to eat.  Last night, the Tooth Fairy returned for her final visit.  She left $20, tucked under his pillow while he played video games.  I suspect that she's the sentimental type.

Dogwood Days: May 1

It seems fitting that today’s sunny May 1 is a Tuesday.  In addition to my first of the month hosta check-in, I’m also celebrating my changing dogwood tree.  We have a May Day with lovely blue skies and Spring is taking hold all over the yard.  The dogwood is just a few days away from a splendid display of white flowers.

Each morning in the coming days, as more flowers open and turn from pale green to white,  viewing this tree will be an especially lovely treat.

That’s happy!

May 1: Garden Hostas

It’s been a month of green and growth in the hosta beds, if not always accompanied by warm days.  The sturdy green shoots began to emerge in the middle of April and today there are promising signs of lush green plants that get larger each day.  The bed along the garage gets the most sun, and these plants are looking splendid.

More hostas grow in the backyard next to the deck.  They are coming along nicely.

The front yard flowerbed is also looking lovely.

There are hostas in my garden patch and they’ve flourished and multiplied in this shade, some growing around the corner of the garage.  This week, the hidden hostas will be transplanted to the other side of the house so that I can admire them.  

There is sun in the forecast for today and the remainder of the week and if I had the time, I expect I could simply sit outside and watch the hostas grow.  Spring, I am charmed.