She gave me not one, but two, bags of books. I couldn’t help but start with How to Do Nothing,Resisting the Attention Economy, by Jenny Odell.
Last week was crazy. We had Master Gardener distributions at four Food Banks around the county, giving out vegetable plants to hundreds of households. So today, and yesterday, I’ve been doing a lot of nothing.
But nothing includes paying attention, appreciating, and turning off the addictive tendencies of too much technology.
Sitting on my front deck, there is a symphony of sounds. Caw-caw-caw calls a crow. I’m reminded of author Odell’s neighborhood crows—Crow and Crowson. We share a new-found passion—birds. The songs of the cardinal, robin, finch, wren, and sparrow dance through the trees. (Thank you, Merlin Bird ID, an app that translates songs into bird identification. Not all technology is bad.) The forceful snap of the American flag in my neighbor Jack’s front yard. The breeze rustling through the oaks and pines and walnuts.
My garden is starting its second year. Unintentional color echoes are all around. The Doronicum ‘Little Leo’ blossoms of yellow fringe reflect the dandelions bursting in the lawn. After all, we live in the shadow of the Nittany Mountains. Roar, Lions, Roar.
The purple globe alliums dug from my mother’s garden stand tall above a swath of chive blossoms—echoes of color and shape. On a cloudless day, the forget-me-nots bask with the same blue of the sky. And when a certain pup goes romping through the drifts, he comes back wearing them on his dustmop coat. Happy accidents.
Potted vegetable plants are lined up at my feet, waiting to go into raised beds. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. Right now, I’m doing nothing and enjoying it. Laurie Lynch
More than once in the past few days, in the doctor’s office, on the phone with my bank, making hotel reservations, I’ve been asked my ZIP Code.
“19530, I mean, 168…04 no…23.” Then Bellefonte, not Pleasant Gap pops up on their screen, adding to the confusion. Then I go into this story about how the Pleasant Gap Post Office closed more than a dozen years ago and was replaced with a pasta-ravioli company.
This whole scenario played in my favor when one fellow actually gave me an AARP discount—without a membership.
It all started with a trip to Salt Lake City for my niece Lia’s wedding. I started reminiscing on the flight. The first time I visited Utah was 1980—43 years ago. A lifetime. That simple math calculation set my mind spinning.
The plane touched down as it was snowing—April. Spring in my head.
I hadn’t left SLC airport before my open palm found its way to Marina’s baby bump and I felt Bobby’s (working title) kick. Marina and Koen were waiting in the terminal for my arrival. My mind scuttled forward to the July due date. To cradling him in my arms. To his four big-girl cousins coddling and tormenting him. To his first steps. To his life growing up in Gent.
Luke and Lia exchanged vows in the orangerie at the University of Utah’s Red Butte Garden. The site overlooks Salt Lake City circled in snowy peaks. Eight of the 12 cousins made the event. Cousin Camp stories—some of which I had never heard—bounced around cocktail hour. Four of the eight cousins brought significant others with international roots—Belgium, Peru, Mexico and Canada. What a global world.
The reception took place next door in the stunning Natural History Museum of Utah. Guests were assigned tables according to flower families—Lia’s idea but influenced, I’m sure, from a lifetime with her horticulturist father. I sat at the Ranunculus (buttercup) table with my sister, her husband, and Marcon cousins who I saw in Italy just last fall.
A not-so-smooth flight home. The Newark-to-State College leg was cancelled last minute due to “disruption of airspace.” Luckily, Richard was able to pull an all-nighter and drove to pick me up. Back in SLC, Koen and Marina rented a car and toured Utah, Arizona and the Grand Canyon.
Cousins
Two weeks later, I met Marina in Kutztown where she planned a visit to 440 Hottenstein Road with the owner, Deon. It had been a dozen years since I climbed hen hill or crossed the meadow and stream at Eagle Point. It was fascinating to see a completely different vision of the same farmstead. And exhausting.
The barn, which housed Dante, Griffey, and the llamas, now is home to Jaguars and Mustangs which Deon restores in his spare time. The chicken coop on Hottenstein is a deluxe tool shed, the outhouse has a working toilet, lights, and a window. The shop is a yoga studio. The three-bay carriage house has been renovated into a party place with overnight accommodations. Deon is installing an irrigation system near the old vegetable garden that he will be able to control with his phone. The chicken tent is still standing on the hill, not far from Deon’s wood-heated hot tub and a magical, red school bus.
The river birch sapling I bought for $1 when Hechinger’s went out of business has grown into a monster. The hundreds of daffodils transplanted from my sister’s displays at the Philadelphia Flower Shows were blooming in the shadow of Eagle Point Schoolhouse. The half dozen or so pawpaw trees planted as a riparian buffer ballooned into a grove. The hellebores in the “hobbit garden” were showing off their early blooms and I can’t even reach the top of the boxwood which, years ago, was dwarfed by the old garden gate.
Flashbacks, fatigue, and an appreciation for the challenges Deon has taken on.
The next few days were filled with visits with old friends, strolling up and down Main Street, flea marketing, and bumping into Mary and Harry at a new-for-us restaurant. At Uptown, Peter greeted me by name as I opened the door—what a memory! I sat and reminisced over two cappuccinos and a veggie bagel. Echoes of Tweet and the Local Yolkels buzzed my brain.
A lunch with Lisa and Steve was followed by a reunion with the rainbow-egg-laying girls. Dinner with Terese and Pete (and a mallard mama nesting in their patio courtyard). Breakfast with Laurel and Dina.
And Dina. I kept saying, “You are so petite. You are so petite.”
I remembered Dina as larger than life as she navigated me through the choppy waters of divorce. We walked through Hope Cemetery for me to make a new acquaintance—a beer chugging, pistol-packing legend in her own time.
Good-byes came too soon. Time to go home. ZIP Code 16823.
Home. The two rhubarb plants Pam and Norm gave me last fall were begging for their first harvest. Surrounded by a foam of cerulean forget-me-nots, they stood guard, welcoming me home. Laurie Lynch
Rhubarb Cobbler Recipe
Don’t Eat Your Heart Out Cookbook by Joseph C. Piscatella was one of my mother’s favorites after she learned she had high cholesterol. This breakfast treat or dessert is simple to make and simply delicious.
4 cups rhubarb, cut into 1-inch slices
½ cup sugar
1-2 Tbsp water
2 Tbsp cornstarch
1 Recipe of cobbler topping
In medium saucepan, combine rhubarb, sugar, water and cornstarch. Bring to boil; cook for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Pour into pie plate. Dot with cobbler topping (see below). Bake at 425 degrees 25-30 minutes until topping is golden.
Cobbler Topping
1 cup flour
½ tsp. salt
1 ½ tsp. baking powder
1/3 cup skim milk
3 Tbsp. safflower oil
Combine flour, salt and baking powder. Mix milk with oil, and add to flour. Using fork, work dough into ball. Drop by spoonsful onto fruit cobbler.
Written on Slate (or to be exact, the Y pool whiteboard): “Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.” Rumi
Written on Slate and in my heart: “Happiness must be grown in one’s own garden.” Mary Engelbreit
Fleur-de-Blog 