And so it begins.

Today we swing into full gardener, lawn care, landscape mode. We are planting tomatoes, spreading soil and grass seed, planting flowers, spreading fertilizer, weed killer, and hope. Hope mixed with some prayer and topped with wishes. Watered into the fresh, earth, carefully chosen, and purchased, carried home in the back of a pickup, hauled around by hand to the back of the house, cut open and spread with care to cover the bare spots. Seed sprinkled generously over the dark, rich soil. 

But, the real good news is the emergence of my true calling, “travel videographer.” I know a trip to the local warehouse style hardware store with its endless aisles, vanishing help, and dizzying variety of styles, prices and milling, moving rivers of customers wouldn’t seem to offer much fodder for a video, maybe though, if you look at it right. 

Streams of people, all with huge carts loaded with lumber, tools, plants, bags, bundles and bales, piled so high they can hardly see around them. So heavy they can hardly steer. Big, unwieldy tanks left right in the middle of the path and rush over to look at the pallet piled high with something on sale. A huge basket, heavy, imposing and impossible to get around, a rock in the middle of a stream, laws of fluid motion fueled by anger, haste, and self importance. 

You can almost hear the indignity. “That is where I was going to leave my cart, you inconsiderate slob.” And, if the pallet of sale items is significant enough there will be a row of heavy carts, running down the aisle, around the corner, and back to the door leading to the garden center. From that point it becomes a phenomenon that feeds itself.  More people see the fascination and want a small piece, without even knowing what lies at the end of the rainbow. 

It doesn’t take long for the wait to increase the pressure. By the time people get to the display they are in a feeding frenzy, convinced that anything worth that kind of line, slow, interminable had to be valuable enough to buy several, no matter what it was. Supply and demand at its most primitive. 

Fortunes are made in those moments. A mad dash, in slow motion, a wide band of shopping carts narrowing into a laser focus at one spot and exploding out from a single point, for something, anything. It is a play that repeats across stores, across cities and states, driving up the value of companies whose products have stirred the interest of a random shopper whose tastes runs toward bargains in bulk. 

I like to wander, look, touch, pick up things, examine them, wonder if the product and I could have a meaningful relationship. My wife hates it when I touch things, but she knows it is who I am, I have to touch fence posts, stop signs, it is how I practice communion with the world, it keeps me grounded. And I like to look at things in stores, find out if it would be my thing, a thing I could use. Normally it isn’t, sometimes, though. My wife goes with a plan, she has studied the advertisement, she knows what she wants, and has a path laid out in her mind. But she is willing to wander a bit, to keep me in sync with things, she is good to me that way.

Spring Yardwork Whining volume 2

Last week, I wrote, among other things, about a bare spot in my lawn. My feelings that it might have supernatural, or even extraterrestrial origins. Actually, I didn’t write about extraterrestrial, that just came to me today, but it seemed to dovetail so perfectly into the narrative I am adding it now. Maybe a tiny space ship lands there, burning away all the vegetation and unleashing an army of clover, dandelions, broadleaf grass and some green mossy looking stuff that is almost impossible to kill. These little alien flora marauders crawl through the neighborhood taking over lawns, choking gardens, eventually destroying the mankind one yard at a time, talk about invasive species.  But, that is just a theory.

It is a funny thing, dirt comes in several levels of quality. Our “dirt,” the stuff in our yard, with little nutritional value for plants is called with much derision “clay.” It is the bottom rung on the ladder of dirt quality. There is topsoil, garden soil, potting soil, lawn soil, peat moss, bags of stuff I can’t even remember the name, a whole range of bagged dirt, from dozens of companies stretching into the depths of the garden center at the local hardware superstore. Some labeled “organic” as if dirt can be anything else. For this job we bought topsoil.

Anyway, I built up the area with several bags of topsoil. Topsoil is sold in medium sized bags weighing hundreds of pounds. It is like wrestling a floppy, compressed car stuffed in a flexible plastic shell. I thought it was going to kill me.

Cutting the bag open you couldn’t help being moved a little by the rich, dark, aromatic, almost beautiful quality. And, for a few brief seconds I felt connected to the earth, in tune with the forces that breathe life into seeds. I felt a deep attachment to the plants, struggling to break through the dark embrace of soil and reach to the warmth and nourishment of the sun. For the smallest instant carrying the heavy bags up the lawn seemed worth it. 

Until I looked at my hands and forearms, they were filthy. My back ached, my legs were sore, and shaky, and I was drenched in sweat. And I still had to spread the grass seed. Curse you, photosynthesis, curse you lush green grass, and whatever had created the bare spot in my lawn. Curse you all the weeds that had poked up all around my lawn, all over the neighborhood. Curse the rules of polite society that have classified the stuff that grows so readily, so easily, as undesirable weeds. Dandelions, with their bright yellow flowers have a beauty, and require no help, they just grow, don’t they deserve to live, too?

There are a few more spots in the yard that need attention. Today we are off to buy more soil, trips through the madness of spring time warehouse club hardware store shopping. We will look and my wife will ask which we should get, as if I know anything about it. I will steer her towards the smaller, lighter bags, easier to carry, not so liable to cause injury, and she will decide on the bags from the Scotts, or Miracle Gro, the best name for the best price. It is our little spring dance.

Still, there is something satisfying in yard work, I can’t deny it. A freshly mowed lawn is a treat, the aroma, the manicured appearance, the neat clean lines from running the edger along the sidewalk and street. Lines of demarcation, the sidewalk and the yard each have a place, and each should respect the other. The uniformity, the neatness, the precise, orderly green of man and grass working together.

It is work, and it never ends, but it is like life, if you put in a little bit you get back a little. And really if you can live with that you can live pretty happily. 

A Mothers Day Shopping Trip spills into August.

Parts One, Two, Three, four, five  and Six are here, please have a look,

All around us the men moved with a terrible purpose. The floor had gone from dingy gray concrete to planks, laid at right angles to the walls. And the walls were slowly sinking, and curving, and had taken on a stark brown appearance, with eye bolts sticking up at regular intervals. But, they weren't really bolts, they were pins, driven into the top of the wall. 

Motion, movement, and deliberate confusion were all around us. Men moved, shuffled past our cart without even seeing us. There was a sense of urgency, despite the slow, deliberate ballet unfolding in front of our eyes, you could sense the menace, the terrible importance of each small movement.

Fog was drifting from right to left, wispy clouds floating like small ghosts in front of us, around us. They seemed to avoid getting too close, swerving around the spot where we stood, and then converging on the other side. 

Rays of sunlight began to break through, and the scene was unreal. A ship, shiny with varnish, buckled and rolled. Masts high with sails, ropes wound and hanging from everywhere, grates to the holds below., and stairs leading to an elevated deck in front of us. We were sprayed by briny, cool water that crashed into the side of the "boat."

Somewhere behind us a song broke out, a melancholy song of love, loss, and sorrow. Soon men all around us joined in haunting, chilling, heartbreaking harmony. A tear ran down my cheek, even though I could only understand part of what was being said. Much of it seemed to be in an ancient, dead language, that I, somehow, began to decipher, decode. A dark, long lost language only sailors, and kayakers would understand.

My wife pulled out her phone and said, "this is crazy, I am giving them a bad review on Yelp." 

Everything stopped. Men turned to look at us. One of them grabbed a deck chair from behind a large round vent that led to the bottom off the ship.

Another came rushing over with a frosty drink, topped by a toothpick holding several slices of fruit. A band started playing calypso music. Soon, we were sitting in chairs, under huge umbrellas, being fanned by a couple of men dressed in white shorts and t-shirts that had tuxedos printed on them.

My wife looked over her huge sunglasses at me and said, "you have to love Yelp."

"Yes, you do." I said. 

to be continued.

Mothers Day shopping, almost Labor day, I wish

Parts One, Two, Three, four and five are here, please have a look,

Almost unnoticeable in the mists and breeze stood the entrance to the aisle where the lattice work and fence sections were shelved. The floor was definitely starting to roll under our feet now. We had the cart, the orange, unwieldy shopping cart, emblazoned with the Home Depot logo to hang onto.

Unsteadily we made our way down the narrow path. Wooden casks stood, strapped to pallets in the middle of the aisle, and down the right side crates, nailed tight, stood, lonely in the dim light. Men came, men wearing grey clothes, rambling slowly, steadily there movements timed exquisitely with the movement of the floor, and picked up a crate. Turning slowly they carried the crate to the swinging doors in the back of the store.

"Hey, let's ask them where the lattice is." My wife suggested, smiling politely, as if we were bathed in the light and crowds of the mall, looking for a cinnamon roll, or iced tea. Not stuck in the netherlands of Home Depot on a holiday weekend.

"OK." I said, she had made up her mind, the course was set and we had full sail, there was no turning back now. Besides, there might be some light on the dock. This gloomy, misty, damp fog was starting to have a negative effect on me.

Unfortunately, the dock was just as dreary, and crowded. Men, shabby clothes, stringy hair, gaunt, bony, matted beards, rags wrapped around their heads, moved slowly around the area. Moved past us as if we did not exist. One of them had a wooden hammer, rounded and worn.

At the ringing of a great bell, a bell that shook the walls, rattled our bones, he slammed a pin that held a wheel, it spun slowly, gaining speed, pulling a chain through a hole in the floor. It stopped with a crash, and a voice screamed "Raise the main sail."

It echoed around the room, and with a great sigh the room, and several adjoining areas, including the employee break room and the public rest rooms broke free from the building. We were adrift, I could hear a lighthouse bell in the distance. All around us the men moved with a purpose, in and out of the mist, and fog.

I looked at my wife, and said, "I told you we should leave."

"Without the lattice for the cucumber?" Her voice was filled with an outraged shock. Her disbelief was profound.

"Man the starboard cannons. We are sailing to send Lowes to the bottom of the sea." A voice, deep, resonant, steeped with the weight of command, an ancient voice from a forgotten past echoed around the "ship."

Shopping Day, Part II

Part II of III. Part I is here

It was a maze of pallets, displays, abandoned shopping carts, tall moveable steps closed off at the we aren’t worried if they get hurt.

base with a chain and a sign with the severe warning, “Risk of Injury Employee Use Only,” as if to say

And people, a lot of people, some single, some in roving groups, wandering around the store, it could have been a scene from the Warriors, roving gangs bent on making it from the garden center to the building materials aisle, and other gangs and the occasional, normally impossible to find Home Depot employee trying to stop them.  “Excuse me, ma’am, can I help you?” Nobody falls for that line, at least not twice.

Many of them were staring at something setting on a shelf, or hanging on a peg, staring at it as if they were looking through it, or they didn’t really understand what it was. I imagine it will be that way during the first few encounters with an extraterrestrial life form (unless it has already happened). Looking, seeing, staring, but not really understanding, and definitely not believing.

We weaved our way through the madness, looking carefully around corners, looking back, constantly looking. The air was heavy, charged with a current you could almost feel. It had the feel of an approaching storm. Not the kind that brought cool weather, watered the plants, provided relief, the kind that blew in manic, violent, tore up trees, destroyed property and left the air heavy and wet.

In the long center aisle that bisects the building right down the center perpendicular to the doors there was a display of microwave ovens standing proud yet surprisingly affordable. They were a beacon, calling people to the home appliances. On the back side of the microwave display, the side farthest from the front of the store stood four brand new refrigerators, still in the box. Apparently, Mother’s Day is a big day for large, durable home goods.

This left only a small opening, a narrow gap in front for the traffic.  And it was crowded, we were coming up, through the hand tool aisle, and had almost arrived at the Microwave Gap, at the same time as a man from the right came pushing a cart filled with mulch, shovels, rakes, flowers, weed killer and plant food. And from the left was a man pushing a cart loaded with 2 x 4s, 2 x 6s, 2 x 8s, almost the entire catalog of dimensional lumber, several boxes of nails and screws, hammers, screw drivers, a leather belt with pockets for tools and fasteners.

Neither was willing to move or wait. Inching closer and closer to a catastrophic meeting right in front of us, malice and violence obvious in their every move, a Spanish guitar played in the background.  Lumber bounced and clattered as the man on the right, picked up the back of the cart a small way and dropping it back to the concrete floor.

A clanging, rhythmic pulse came as the man with the mulch bounced a hand trowel against the side of the metal bar serving as the rear handle, then he slowly scraped it across the steel shovel blade, sparks flew and the sound was evil. The other man reached for the hammer sitting on top of a box of serious looking nails.

Closer, and closer, neither willing to look away, staring at each other with the animosity of boxers at a weigh in.  The tension built, the air began to dance in heat waves, the anger and stubbornness was so intense.

“Excuse me.” And a frail, small, old woman, dressed like she had just come from church, her purse straps draped over the silk sleeve of her shiny, impossibly white blouse. In her cart was a watering can adorned with plastic flowers, a hand rake and a small bag of candy. With the imperious, demanding air of a school teacher she parted the masses. Moving to the side, their heads bowed in shame.

And, she forced both men to shove their heavy, difficult, unwieldy carts to the side. She walked past both of them without saying a word, and you could sense the heated rise of embarrassment enveloping them, turning their faces red.

Traffic began to flow, and both men waited patiently then took their turn going through the small opening.

Tune in for the exciting conclusion, when we check out at the self serve register.

Time to DIY.

On Sunday we went to The Home Depot. A suicide mission on a nice day, early in the year, combat shopping. Just getting into the parking lot was almost impossible. The entry sends you right past the front of the Garden Center, scene of some of the most vicious shopping of the season.

To make matters worse they take the opportunity provided by the increased automotive traffic to add big orange rolling racks filled with flowers to the front of the store. These run from the wall all the way to the driveway. To move from one to the other to look at the explosion of colorful plants you need to walk on the driveway. Of course, the driveway is filled with cars either trying to get in, or dying to escape.

It seems to be impossible to just walk up to a rack and think “I like the orange one with the big petals. I am buying that one.” No, it is a decision that takes hours and a lot of moving from rack to rack regardless of the potential for being run over. It requires a lot of hands on examination, a painful comparative process and minute inspection on a molecular level. People will look at two identical flowers for minutes, turning them, tilting them, every angle and view covered. It is the “plant whisperer.” What do they see? I am always impressed by the thoroughness, as long as I am not driving.

This year they went one better and added a row of blue rolling racks covered with potted vegetables to the entry way. Which turned the opening into a narrow funnel where impatient gardeners and home improvers rush to get in before someone can stop to look at the fennel plant.

We stopped to buy a cucumber plant. I like cucumbers, but even if I hated them, even if I were allergic to them, even if I was religiously opposed to cucumbers we would plant one, because they are so much fun. They are like predatory plants, they send out vines that wrap around things, you would swear they are on the attack.

We were on one side of this narrow pass, a little boy, maybe 10 years old stopped to look at something on the other side. It was on the bottom of the blue, rusty, rolling shelf.

Crossing the drive in front of the narrow, cramped entrance was a man, pushing a cart. He was

oblivious to traffic, and pushed his way across without even a glance left or right. It was a cart designed to hold lumber, and lots of it. Heavy duty, with six wheels, and three upright tubes that curved and crossed the platform to hold the piles of wood, keeping them separate and on the cart, it was a cart to be reckoned with. It did everything well, except maneuver.

I hate that door!!!

This cart only held one door, and a frame. The Man pushing it was mad. His face set in concrete lines of barely controlled fury. I don’t know if he bought the wrong door, or if it was defective, or it was too hard to install, but clearly the door was the object of his rage. And he was not slowing or stopping for anybody. He came barreling in through the narrow, tunnel like entrance, eyes straight ahead. I thought he was going to smash the little boy kneeling to look at the plants.

Fortunately the boy moved, just in time to avoid the angry man bearing down on him with the heavy cart, holding the innocent, white door.

Unfortunately, for the man, and the door, the line at the “customer service” was long, and he stood there fuming, tapping his foot, and glaring at the people in front of him. His hand wadded up a fistful of his dusty white t-shirt, right at the waist line, causing the University of Hard Rock Café logo to stretch and distort, and look slightly obscene.

I started to move down the display of tape measures, hammers and power drills, hoping to be able to last until the man with the offensive, infuriating door got to the front. Then I would have some answers. Why was he so angry about the door? Was it a Mother’s Day gift gone bad?

But, my wife didn’t want to know, and she grabbed a handful of my shirt, and drug me off to fight the crowds, and make our way to the back…

To be continued…