This morning, as usual, my first stop was the bathroom to wash my face and get ready for the day ahead. I stared into the mirror, but what I saw was not me looking back, but my mother! I knew that someday it would happen. Occasionally, Mom would announce in a loving voice that someday I would be just like her, because she was turning into her mother. When I was younger, people would comment on how much I looked like my Mom. I was sixteen, she was forty six, and I was unhappy with those comments. I couldn’t see the resemblance at all back then. Gradually as time passes I seem to take on more and more of my mothers’ traits. I remember her telling me that she couldn’t handle the noise the kids made, and suddenly I too, am shell shocked by the racket that the grandkids sometimes make when they are having too much fun. Sometimes without warning, I suddenly stagger off to the left. Not much, but just a little, like her. I find myself liking more of the same things, paying more attention to the style of shoes, or talking about some of her favorite subjects. I’ve started collecting some of her favorite knick knacks, and am even taking some of the same medications as her. I’ve taken up reading more, one of her favorite pastimes. I get my sense of humor from her. For example one day while we were out walking she helplessly “toot” “tooted” her way along, due to the adverse effect of her medication. Looking behind her she admonished her rear end by scolding “OH shut up! “I wasn’t talking to you!” We cracked up! I also get my grey hair, pointy feet, wrinkled hands, and love of life from her. She taught me to cook, and I make her favorite recipes, although some don’t really turn out as good as hers. This month it will be eight years since my mother has passed away. She died suddenly of pancreatic cancer two months after being diagnosed. I thank God that she had come to live at my home three years previously. We were the best of friends, and I was there to hold her in my arms when she left this world for better things. It was a privilege to be her daughter. Now this morning, and every morning when I get up, look in that mirror, and see that I am indeed turning into my mother, my heart swells with pride, love, and gratitude. I can only try to be a daughter that she would be proud of. It’s a tough act to follow. Call your Mother if you can. She is waiting to hear your voice.

Hubby and I were out shopping the other day, and we noticed that although Halloween is on the doorstep, retailers are trucking out the Christmas goodies. I have to go to the dollar store on the way home,” I announced. “Do you mind stopping?” “I hate that store. For one thing, there is hardly anything in there that costs just a dollar. Everything is a dollar fifty or more. Why do they entice people by saying it’s a “Dollar store”? he asked. “What are you talking about? There’s lots of stuff for a dollar, and I need to pick up a couple of things so I can work on my Christmas store crafts. This year I am making some bracelets, and tonight I am going to decorate some ornaments.” “Alright. I’ll stop, but I don’t want to spend an hour in there looking at junk. Besides, do you ever make any money at this “Christmas store?” he said. “You don’t even recover your cost so I can’t figure out why you bother.” “It’s to raise money for the art gallery, and besides, I enjoy making some different things to sell”. This is the time of year when I come up with my best (or worst) “brainy ideas”. And believe me when I say “Brainy”. Hubby and I call our marketing plan the “Buy High” “Sell Low” policy. For some reason, that’s just how things work out for us. Over the years it has become a standing joke, and my Christmas store sales are right in keeping with that policy. I can’t charge for my time, or failed attempts at some dumb idea, and apparently what I think is a “sure sell” usually turns out to be a “dud. We pull into the dollar store parking lot, and with Hubby yakking about my past failed projects, we beetle into the store. “I think I’ll make some pot holders since I hauled up the sewing machine,” I said, “And I need new ones anyway.” We hadn’t gone more than ten feet when he spots the pot holders on the rack. “These are only a dollar fifty. Can you make them for less than that? I don’t think you can, so better just buy the darn things here.” He’s right, so I throw a couple into the cart. So much for that idea. “How about if I make some scarves?” I asked “You mean like these here? Two fifty and look at the nice colors.” I just give him a scathing look. There goes another project down the tubes. And so it continued… everything I had already made for our little fundraiser was available in the dollar store, and I was being undercut price wise. Who was going to buy my nice handmade items if they could buy it in the dollar store for so cheap? Not only that, it was taking a lot of time and money to make these things, and compile a nice display. Up and down the aisle we tread, and with each turn of our heads, I see items that I just couldn’t make for this low price. I thought about those people who were making next to nothing cranking out this stuff for our consumption, and I knew exactly how they felt. “What the heck is the world coming to?” I lament. “You may as well get used to it,” Hubby says. “Your entrepreneurial skills are sadly lacking, and you are out of business before you even start.” I can see the hours that I have spent making jewellery bags, bracelets, and ornaments turning into a total disaster in the money-making end of things. “Well, I get a lot of satisfaction in making things, and besides, it’s either glue and glitter, or a whack of therapy sessions. What’s it gonna be?” I ask. “Let me think,” he says…. “ if you ever turn from suicidal to homicidal, we may have to increase the glitter and glue budget, until then, we’re still A okay.” There’s one thing that the dollar store merchandise can’t beat, and that’s the personal satisfaction that I get when something goes right. It’s a sense of accomplishment. Glitter…. a dollar twenty-five; my sanity…. priceless.

I think I need new glasses. I say this for a number of reasons, but mainly because Hubby says I need new ones, and I have to agree. The other day while we were driving I said to him “For Pete’s sake, look at that! I’ve never seen a Nun on a bicycle taking a dog for a run before.” He just shook his head and laughed. “What’s so funny? I said. “That’s not a Nun,” hubby replied. “It’s a man with a backpack, and he’s not running his dog, he’s pulling a kid in a wagon.” I guess I had better get in for a check up. I was also informed that hubby is “tired” of deciphering the print on my prescription bottles, and reading the how to’s on such things as the shampoo containers and cleaning supplies. Yesterday I wanted to give myself a hair treatment, and I was trying to decode the instructions on the bottle. Of course, there was no way on God’s green earth that I could see the small printing on that label, so naturally I called on hubby’s stellar vision to get me by. “Can you read this?” I asked. “Geez, why don’t you get new glasses?” He said. “I think your vision is getting worse. You need new ones, so you better make yourself an eye appointment, especially after that incident with the bicycling Nun.” “I know I need new glasses,” I replied, “but my plan says I am not due for another year, and I don’t want to pay the whole shot myself. So help me out here all right? Just tell me if I need to leave this stuff on my head for an hour, or if I have to wash it off right away, ok?” “You know you’re turning into your mother don’t you?” he offered up. “What’s that got to do with anything?” I said. “Well, she always carried around that black magnifying glass. Maybe you should consider using it if you don’t get new specks. It wouldn’t hurt. Then I wouldn’t have to read all the labels for you when we go shopping. Sometimes people think you’re illiterate when I have to read stuff to you,” he said. “Look, you don’t expect me to haul around a magnifying glass do you? I can’t find my glasses half the time now, so how do you expect me to find something like that when I need it?” came my response. What a dumb idea. Next thing you know he’ll want me to bring along a pair of binoculars. “By the way,” I add, “Would you please stop referring to me as “Mrs. Magoo”? People are starting to think that’s my real name. Besides, you know that bad eyesight runs in the family. Remember Grandma Lutz? She had to wear glasses that were as thick as coke bottles.” He gives me a pitying look and informs me that Grandma Lutz was ninety-three and even with bad eyes, she could spot a nickel in the ditch from a hundred yards away. “Yeah”, well I’d like to see her read this” I said, handing him the small bottle of conditioner. How could they even print words that small? One font size smaller and it would have to be in Braille. He takes the bottle, and turns it this way and that way. His eyes are squinting, and I can tell by his expression that this is no easy task, even for “Mr. Twenty-twenty”. He moves over to get better light, but that doesn’t seem to help. “Wait a minute,” he says, “I’ll be right back.” Sure enough, he returns carrying Ma’s magnifying glass, and moving it up and down over the label, manages to read the tiny print. I head over to the phone. “Hey! Where are you going?” He says. “I’m making eye appointments, what day is good for you?” Secretly I’m hoping that there’ll be a “Buy one, get one free” sale on glasses. Guess who’s got dibs on the ‘free’ one?

"North To Alaska"

I know that you can probably guess from the title, where we are going on our long awaited vacation. As if we haven’t had enough of snow and ice last winter, we have booked a cruise to Alaska. A Disney cruise. With the kids, and grandkids, no less. We like to live on the edge, Hubby and I, and this trip will either prove that we still have true grit, or have totally lost our minds. I know that Alaska is not all snow and ice, and this time of year it can be beautiful there. Since it is a cruise, we are definitely looking forward to the trip. After all, how bad can a cruise be? One thing we really don’t look forward to is packing our clothes. We have been putting it off until now, but we can no longer avoid doing the inevitable. Hubby packs for himself, and I pack for myself, strictly because his idea of necessities doesn’t come close to my idea, and I haven’t a clue what he thinks he needs. Last night I sent him downstairs to dig out the suitcases. “Get the ugly one with the yellow scarf tied on the handle,” I tell him. “Why can’t we use the good suitcases?” he asks. “Because I don’t want my good suitcases getting stolen,” I answer back . “What are you talking about?” comes the reply. “I mean, I am taking the crappiest ones we have, that way no one will want to rip them off.” “What the heck did we buy these new ones for? We haven’t used them yet, and we have been away three times since we got them.” “Think about it,” I say. “No one would be caught dead with the old ones, and we can spot them in an instant if somebody tries to make off with them. ” Apparently he doesn’t see my point of view, but decides against a debate on the suitcase issue, and brings up his new one and my old crappy one. For him packing is no big deal, but he doesn’t think like a woman either. Women inherently know that more than one pair of shoes will be required. Men think runners are good for everything and can be worn with suits. NOT! We want to pack “light” this time, and not take a lot of stuff that we’ll never wear, but looking through the closet, I start to second guess what I’ll need. Alaska is different than Maui. Guess I had better pack a warm coat, sweaters, slacks, a good evening outfit. Rain gear? Do I need a bathing suit or a parka? Suddenly I start to panic. There is a lot of pre trip stuff to do… the house needs a good vacuuming, the yard needs tending, the fridge needs cleaning, and the list goes on and on in my head. I’m immobilized, stuck to the floor, while the clock ticks down to departure and nothing is done. What if something goes wrong and the police have to come into the house? I can see the headlines now. “FAMILY ON VACATION LEAVES CUPBOARDS IN DISORGANIZED MESS” Police wonder “HOW CAN THEY LIVE LIKE THAT, THEY SEEMED SO NORMAL?” Witness says, “I SAW DUST BUNNIES UNDER THE BED, AND WAS HORRIFIED!” Ok, get a grip, Val! You’re letting your imagination run rampant. Just calm down. Think sensibly. Are you going to see anyone on this cruise that you know? Probably not. Do you give a rat’s behind if you don’t have the house perfect when you are not here? Nah, I don’t think so. Do you care if the lawn grows over the house? Absolutely not. Then pack what you need and start having fun. Your mission (should you choose to accept it) is to have the best time that you can. Live in the moment, and get moving! It’s a good thing that there are still a few brain cells that are capable of reasoning. My heart rate returns to normal , and I start packing a few things into the old worn out suitcase. This is the point of no return, and high on my priority list is my determination to have a good time, and I suddenly realize that I can do that wearing anything. Including a parka if need be. Bon Voyage. I’ll be back before I know it.

"It's All Greek to Me!"

I was always under the impression that I knew how to speak, and could communicate fairly well with the other members of my species. Sadly, it seems I have been deluding myself. Not only can I not understand people who have moved here from Newfoundland, but I have found out recently that I can’t decipher rap songs, or some toddler-eez (the language of the ankle biters). I got to thinking about dictionaries, and how I am using them more and more often these days. One of the card ladies is from Newfoundland, and sometimes she will turn a phrase that is unfamiliar with the rest of us. In my desire to know some more “sayings”, I went to the bookstore to see if they had a dictionary of regional lingos. I found out there is a “Newfie” dictionary that will help you decode the language of the people from Newfoundland. Go figure. You may want to know, that the phrase “There’s more meat on Good Friday” means that “she is one skinny person”. Good to know, just in case you might have to converse with someone from Newfoundland who happens to be anorexic. Now a days there is a dictionary for every occasion. There’s an “Urban” dictionary. I guess this one is for “townies” not applicable to those who live in the country. It contains such gems as: “Nerd – do – well”: A financially successful geek. “Troubabore”: a bad street musician … optional: “troubasnore” (this one must be really bad) And this word which is totally fitting: “Harmaceutical”: A medication FDA approved and released for public consumption by a pharmaceutical company, only to be re-called and be the subject of a class-action lawsuit because of its previously unreported dangers. Online you can find a picture dictionary to help out the kiddies in order to learn the right word for the right situation. My favorite word here is “Angry”. This picture really prepares them for the real world. Nothing like teaching them a little road rage early in life, I always say. There’s always the helpful talking dyslexic dictionary where you can look up such words as “daft”… with just a click on the picture (which personally offends me) the pronunciation is spoken out loud by, you guessed it, a woman. (this is the actual picture) Ohhhh. So that’s what daft looks like. Oh yeah, I remember seeing that same expression on some of my best friends. Who would have guessed that so many specialized dictionaries exist. I checked out the Hip Hop dictionary in order to try and decipher a song I was listening to, and learned that “Can’t scrap a lick” means “Can’t fight at all”. The rest of the song hasn’t been decoded by me yet, but the wording I fear, is not for Christian ears. It doesn’t look good. Here are a few nuggets and their meanings from other fun dictionaries that I have scoped out: Ikea: the Swedish word for particle board, and /or the Swedish phrase for “see if you can put this stuff together”. “Facility Fishing”…. the act of searching for a washroom. Hubby and I used to “Twurk” on Saturday nights, sometimes all night when we were young and in love. Now we rarely “Twurk”, since we are not in very good physical shape and we don’t have the energy for that. Did you guess that to “Twurk” means to dance? I bet you didn’t. So, I guess I still have a lot to learn, as far as communicating with my fellow man, is concerned. I may have to resort to sign language, but until then, I will keep my trusty dictionary handy. By the looks of it, I’m gonna need it. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How the Heck Did I Get Here?"

Those of us who are computer savvy, and by that I mean people who can at least turn on the machine, occasionally need to avail ourselves of the search engine in order to help us answer a question or two. Searching on the Internet is really an art form, and for the lazy person such as myself, that is way out of my league. Sure I can type a query into Google, or Ask. Com, and usually find out relatively quickly at least, a general answer. However, sometimes I am taken on a ride that would rival the roller coaster at Coney Island. Since I heard on the radio a fire was caused by batteries in a junk drawer, I decided to check it out. Typing in a few words , I was immediately taken to a site that mentioned a myriad of causes for fires and, although rare, this could actually happen. Quickly scanning the page, I was intrigued by a small byline that read “It Burns! It Burns!!! Naturally I had to check this out. This story had nothing to do with my actual question, but seemed very interesting. Turns out, a young man had been doing food prep in the kitchen. He went to the washroom and had inadvertently gotten hot pepper juice on his nether regions. (Apparently, he did not wash his hands before doing his business, and this was the result of prepping the habeneros.) He was in a lot of pain and was begging for help. (why would you ask this question online; wouldn’t you head as fast as you can for the Dr.s office or, at the very least, phone Health Link?) He was rewarded with a myriad of suggestions, and eventually everything was resolved. I wondered why so many people actually knew how to deal with this problem? Does it happen that often? Now I was dragged into the world of laser treatments, burn scar remedies, anti-itch creams, and anti fungal cures. I was swept along by enticing links that lead from one quirky site to another, going from volcano hotspots, to the lyrics to “Hot Spot” by Foxy Brown, whomever that is. The lyrics, by the way, made no sense at all. It was like a roller coaster and I couldn’t get off. I was pulled along by intriguing titles that led me to outrageous news stories, ads for way too many personal products and sites that made me blush. Two hours passed, and I turned into a zombie , one of the undead, and staring at my computer I weakly lifted my aching hand. I hit the last link. Suddenly , I’m on the weird page at “You Tube” watching some guy tie his shoes without using his hands. I lower my eyes down to the comments, and there in tiny letters is a cry for help. Some poor surfer, like me, was asking the million dollar question….. How the heck did I get here? We were kindred souls, riding the wave of the internet, who had been trapped on the You Tube nut page. At least now I know how to take care of a Hot Pepper burn. No, I’m not going to tell you, you’ll just have to look it up for yourself. I’ll see you when you get to the weird page and join the rest of us lost souls. You can surf, but beware of the undertow.

Clueless in the Sixties..

. Today is my daughter’s birthday. Finally, I can let a little of the responsibility and worry go. She is old enough to make good decisions, and if not well, she will have to live with the consequences. But I’m not worried. I don’t know how it happened, but Hubby and I have managed to raise two kids, who turned out to be responsible, caring, and productive individuals. Really, that is amazing, because when we got married we were young, clueless, and it was the sixties. I remember that day when Hubby proposed. It was not the most romantic proposal, but then, we were in love and I hadn’t seen many Hollywood movies yet. Me: “I think I’m pregnant.” Hubby: “Well, I guess we’ll have to get married.” Me: “OK.” Short and sweet, but that conversation seemed like the most natural thing in the world. We were both just nineteen at the time, in love, and for some reason it just felt “right”. Thank goodness my parents liked Hubby, he knew how to play crib and had a job, and I think his parents liked me too. I knew how to cook, and didn’t wear too much eye shadow. So we were married, and some months later the big “birth”-day arrived. Here’s how I remember it ,however, his memory may be different. The evening before, my water had broken on our way to a wedding. (I said “A” wedding not our wedding.) We opted for returning home since everyone was worried I would give birth in the middle of dancing the “Funky Chicken.” During the evening the contractions started, and since we were both rather naive about childbirth, I decided that we need not rush things. I may as well lie at home in pain rather than in the hospital. Come morning, I had reached my limit and gave Hubby the go ahead to get the wheels to the front of the apartment, and to make it snappy. He took off like he was shot out of a cannon, and I grabbed my overnight bag and headed down the third floor stairs. On the second landing, I had to rest and wondered what the heck was taking him so long. As it turns out he had forgotten me and had to turn around and come back, losing valuable time. I managed to get to the lobby just in time to see him park out front. He helped me get into the back seat, and I told him to step on it. Even though we were only ten blocks from the hospital it seemed like forever. With me urging him to “step on it!”, and him dodging traffic, the thought that maybe I had left it too long crossed my pain riddled mind. “Hang on!” “Hold it in!” Hubby encouraged me. I was sure this was because he was terrified that he would have to deliver the baby and was not out of concern for my well being. I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t like holding in gas, but decided to let out a large moan instead. We careened through moving vehicles, and zig zagged around pedestrians, pulling up to the hospital emergency entrance unscathed. I was whisked away to the delivery room, leaving Hubby to take care of the admission details. Twenty minutes later, we were the parents of a tiny baby girl. So, today I sit here wondering where the time went. It seems like just yesterday, and yet forty three years have blown past me. That baby has grown up, has children of her own, and has become my best friend. I can’t imagine not having her, or my grandchildren in our lives. We may have been young at the time, but we made the right decision with the grace of God. Maybe we weren’t so clueless, or maybe we were just unbelievably lucky. Happy Birthday Cindy! Love Ya.

Mow, Mow, Mow your Lawn

Apparently putting sixty pounds of fertilizer on your lawn between the first arrival of grass and August, causes an extraordinary amount of grass to grow. Well, Duh! Since our lawn was looking a little sad in May compared to the neighbors, I decided that it would be a good idea to put some added nutrients into the grass to give it a little boost. Since we were fortunate, or unfortunate, depending on whether or not your basement got flooded, to have lots of rain, the fertilizer spreader was yanked out of the shed every time a dark cloud peeked over the horizon. Again, my ability to make a good decision was questioned by Hubby. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” he had the nerve to ask. “Of course I do.” I replied, “I’ve read tons of information from books, to Internet forums, so I have a pretty good handle on how to get this dry brown area into a beautiful green nature belt.” Naturally I didn’t bring up the incident of the “Miracle Grass purchase”, the grass seed that we bought from the TV commercial last year. That was the grass that would grow anywhere, even on cement. Maybe it comes up a regular green if you plant it on cement instead of your existing lawn, but on our front lawn, it was a brilliant lime green patch in the shape of a square three feet by four feet. Real eye catching. “Just trust me,” I said, “I know what I’m doing. Fertilizing will knock out those thistles too.” Our lawn was riddled with hidden thistles that scarred your feet if you had an inclination to run barefoot through the grass. Which I didn’t. I am a quick learner had more sense than to try that again. So, I started off on my crusade to acquire a greener, healthier, show stopping lawn. I laid in a supply of a good quality of amendments (aka. bags of lawn fertilizer), oiled up the rusty push spreader and waited for the first rains to appear. And appear they did! The plant food was on, the rains had come (I got a little worried when I saw the animals going down the street two by two), and finally came the sun. It was scorching during the day, humid like the jungles of Brazil. And that’s exactly what I had in the front yard... a jungle, and now it was time to mow. Yikes!! Holy Schmoly! Those green blades were up to my armpits! Hmmm, maybe I should have thought this out a little bit better, but I’d have to be tortured before I’d admit that to Hubby. “That’s quite the crop of grass you’ve got going there.” He said with a smirk. “Do you want me to mow it for you?” “No! No!” I shot back, “ This is my project and I can take care of it.” What was I thinking? Turn down help? I really must be losing it. That darn mouth is a heap of trouble... it should really consult the brain before yapping off like that. I’m on my way to the shed to confront the whipper snipper and the lawn mower. I know exactly how I got myself into this mess and I intend to get myself out with my pride intact. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you hanging. I’ll be back next week to let you know how the mowing went. Pray for me my friends.

 Out in the shed I am met with an angry horde of starving mosquitoes. After all this rain and heat they are voracious, and it looks like I am the only chunk of meat on the menu. Grabbing “Rusty’s” handle with one hand, and the weed wacker with the other, I manage to escape, but once again I scrape my skull on the top of the door. Why oh why, couldn’t the company who made this shed realize that not every one is a Hobbit???

Rusty” (as I affectionately call my lawn mower) and I have a long history. He was an anniversary gift from Hubby early in our marriage, so he is not in his prime of life. I am not a novice in the lawn mowing arena, and know enough to check for gas. The gas can is empty and peering into the lawn mower, it looks like there is only half a tank left. I will have to really move it if I am going to make it without running out. First order of business is trimming. I put on the gloves and get a good grip on the weed wacker. I prime it and give the cord a yank.... and a yank... and a yank. I’m surprised that my right arm isn’t the size of “Popeye’s” by now. I haven’t even started mowing yet and already I’m sweating like a pig, and the heat is making my legs and feet swell up like puffer fish. My, that’s an attractive look for a gal.

Finally the stupid thing starts, and I run around like a crazed, machete wielding parolee, destroying everything in my path. I ignore the fact that in that path are my toes and I grit my teeth each time the cord gives me a stinging slap. Note to self, wear shoes, and not flip flops. Naturally, the wacker spits out the last bit of cord before I can finish, so I throw it back in the shed. It’s too hot to deal with that now.

“Rusty” is as reliable as the day is long, and sure enough he starts like a dream. The only drawback is the still slightly wet grass which is up to my armpits, and I quickly learn “Rusty” doesn’t like these conditions. I coax him around the lawn, pleading for him to give it his all, but by the time we make one round the bag is bulging and the chute is plugged. Yikes! What was I thinking when I put on that fertilizer? This bag weighs at least sixty pounds and I have to lift this thing up and over the edge of the green bin? The grass is wet, so I need to unplug the grass chute on the mower each time we make a round, and worried about running out of gas, I start sprinting around the yard as fast as I can. You’d think someone just yelled “fifty percent off your purchase!”

All the while “Rusty” is leaving behind mounds of grass. His wheels are green and my legs are spattered with clippings, my toes are slimy green from the wet grass, and bruised from the weed wacker. Still we soldier on. One strip left up the middle and “Rusty” starts to cough. “Come on Boy”, I plead, “You can do it!” I pick up the pace but to no avail. Sputtering and coughing, “Rusty” is at his limit. He’s out of gas, and I’m out of steam. We’re done.

Trudging up to the steps I flop down to survey the yard. Blobs of grass are everywhere, and weeds poke up from around the edges in random areas where the wacker ran out of cord. A long crooked strip of grass runs right up the centre of the yard, and my flip flop lies sideways next to poor “Rusty.” It certainly wasn’t the pristine cut I’d envisioned, but man, that grass is lush and green! I think I’ll take a shower and have a rest. I’ll leave “Rusty” and the green bin for Hubby to put away. That is the least he can do since I’ve managed to give us the greenest lawn on the block. But, you know, maybe I’ll back off on the fertilizer.......... just for awhile.

My Garden of Weeden

Weeding is very cathartic. Now hold on ... don’t start tossing tomatoes at me yet! It may surprise you to know that some people actually like to weed, and I guess I fall into that group. Of course there are “closet” weeders, people who deny that they enjoy getting out in the flower beds to weed, but I know they secretly take pleasure in rooting out the invaders. ( pun intended)

While weeding, I have noticed a lot of things , and have come to some conclusions about people and plants. For one thing, we have lots of characteristics in common, and the lowly weed has taught me some very valuable lessons in life. Here are a few:

 • Patience. Each week I see the patience those weeds exhibit. They know I’ll be back next Monday to pull them out, but they patiently wait and go on growing, just in case I don’t get around to them, or forget that it’s Monday.

• Determination. They are determined to reproduce, and nothing in their make up says “throw in the towel, it’s no use, we’ll just get picked on again.” These fellas are no “quitters.” Guess I can’t be one either.

• Courage. I don’t know about you, but it takes a lot of courage to stand outside, unprotected, in some of the rain storms we have had lately. Those tough plants put up with some of the worst rain and wind, and still survive to see the sunshine. Not that they have a choice, they have no feet. Bummer

• Flexible. I noticed how flexible those weeds are, bending easily to take whatever the elements throw at them, and it reminds me to be a little more flexible with how I treat others, and bend more, instead of taking a “hard line” attitude. Lessons in tolerance come easy when weeding. Bending is not so easy. Getting up... worse.

 • Perseverance. Learn to persevere no matter how dim and bleak things look. Plants hang on and endure under the most extreme conditions, and forge an existence in places where you least expect them. They have taught me to adapt and thrive.

• Dependable. Weeds are definitely dependable. As sure as there is snow in winter, those weeds will come back day after day, week after week, and year after year. Some will winter themselves over, and most will send their seeds into cracks and crevices, to patiently wait for the next warm spell in spring. Employees should be that dependable. Sadly, not all of them are.

 • Enthusiastic. I wish I had the enthusiasm for working, like those plants have for growing! Good heavens, a couple of days of rain and one of sun, and those things are up to the windowsill. Some people should take a lesson here, and get out of their easy chairs and show the same zest for life as weeds do.

 • Beauty. Some weeds are really beautiful.. with their soft purple blooms swaying on long graceful stems, others with bright yellow faces soaking up the sun and brightening up the shady areas of the yard. It was thirty degrees here today and as I hand weeded the sidewalk I sweated, and bent over like Grandpa Simpson I felt back pain as if I had been tortured on the “rack” . The beauty of those weeds taught me one last vital lesson. They educated me to the fact that beauty is fleeting, but stupid is forever. I’m heading to the garage for the jug of weed killer. Another life lesson from nature. (Sigh)