A few years ago I was visiting a friend of mine here in Austin. She had a beautiful garden–several rosebushes with lots of colors. I’d always wanted a true red rose with a great smell. My grandmother used to grow them, and I helped her take care of them. I loved the big blooms, and I could stand there smelling them for hours while I watered. My friend had a bush that reminded me of grandma’s. She said she could produce a bush from a cutting.

A few months later, she brought me my rosebush. I couldn’t wait to get it in the ground. Then I waited and waited for it to bloom. When the blooms started, they were suspiciously…light. White really. Would they darken? Hmm. I certainly didn’t remember roses starting out so…white. And the thing was getting tall. Very tall, much like a climbing rosebush that grandma had, a rosebush that my father hated because he was constantly having to trim it…

The tips were sort of red. Well, pinkish really…

My friend was growing a starters for three people. I ended up with a white/pink climbing rosebush! *Groan* Almost like grandma, but the wrong memory! I have roses…that I am constantly pruning back to keep the driveway clear!

It didn’t end there either. I only became more determined to get a nice red rose. My friend had moved, leaving her bushes behind…so I had to look elsewhere…Check back for more in the next couple of weeks as more rosebushes bloom!

Rain Barrel Update When last we checked in, we had one full rain barrel. The overflow barrel had just a little runoff, but we noticed a problem. The full barrel had sunk into the ground by an inch or two because of the water weight. It was now below the barrel where the runoff was to go! Since the one barrel was still mostly empty, we lowered it slightly so that if it rains again, the runnoff will “run downhill” into the barrel. Each barrel is 70 gallons. I used about a quarter of that to water my veggies this morning. So each barrel is a good for three to four waterings (I’ll use more water the further it gets from rain days). Two-tenths of an inch filled the one barrel–a half inch should come darn close to filling them both!

Watering via gravity is more work. I can’t use my leaker hose effectively, not even the new nylon one that I bought. I’d hope the nylon one would leak more water, but it doesn’t leak fast enough. I’ll probably be able to use it to water the lawn. I can leave the nylon hose hooked up for several hours or overnight when I want to water the lawn and drain the last of the barrels.

The graveyard was in the middle of a forest, incredibly peaceful.  The dirt road leading to it was in surprisingly good shape.   Any cars/campers using the ten or so mile dirt road crossing from the mountain valley in the Mimbres to the Santa Rita area probably go right past the cemetery without even knowing it is there.  The ponderosa pine and juniper tress watch over the graves, silently dropping needles now and then, adding a layer every year.   The soil is a deep rich black, a combination of the pine needs, bark and minerals.  Most of the graves aren’t marked.  Many of the graves are just an oblong circle of stones in the shape of a coffin with no headstone or marker of any kind.  Many of the graves are very, very old.

We went there because dad had learned that his grandmother was buried there.   Her headstone was combined with two others; likely a son and daughter, the last of which was buried in 1943.  Had she not been buried there, the headstones might not have existed at all–or might have been unreadable.  Whoever had buried her had taken the time to make a new gravestone, a granite carved one like you might see in a modern cemetery. A very old stone, probably for the brother, was still standing on the plot, although his name had also been added to the new stone.  We spent at least a half hour trying to read the original stone–and stone it was, just an oblong rock that someone had erected and carved by hand, perhaps with a nail or other sharp object.  The name was clear, but dates were questionable, as were the attempts to spell, “Fallecio” (Died or passed in Spanish) and “Arbal,” which was probably meant to be the Spanish for April.  His age will always be a mystery as it did not match with possible birth and death dates on that stone or the one that was redone.

We found an old stone much like it at another grave–only it was lying face down, slowly sinking into the ground.  We righted it.  The only carving still legible was a large cross across the top.

Dad’s grandfather from his mom’s side was also buried there. We found the grave and a very good metal marker.  The words were clear, as were the dates.  He was in the army so perhaps there was money to make the proper marker.

The cemetery wasn’t what I’d call unkempt; it was more like it was being kept by mother nature.   Metal gates were rusted, parts were missing.  Stones were ever so slowly eroding, smoothing out.   There were one or two graves with plastic flowers, but the petals were gently dusted, as though mother nature had acknowledged their addition with a light caress.

It was a soothing place.  Quiet.  Time was just out of reach, spinning both backwards and forwards. You could see the names, but from the corner of your eye, there to the right, was a stone where the name was slowly eroding.  Bit by bit, the carving would erase, just like the scattered memories left of the person who had died so many years before.

At the BMB household we sat outside and gave out candy. This year’s star costumes:

The six year old neighbor kid dressed as a fairy–only her wings slipped and left them flapping at butt level as she ran from door to door.

The penguin toddler that decided to just go on in our garage like he owned the place. He appeared to be looking for a quiet place to lie down and take a nap.

The Ninjas. I asked every 5-year-old ninja (and there were a lot of them) for their best ninja pose. What did I get? Blank stares! “I don’t know.” Not a one seemed to know what such a pose might be! I found that remarkable.

The four-year-old superman. When I asked him for a pose, he stood there shyly and pulled on his cape. I thought it a good try for his age. It became a great try after he got his candy, he pushed his cape out behind him and ran down the driveway to make the cape fly! Then he looked back at us and said, “I got pose!”

I asked a ten-year-old kid with blinking red eyeballs and frankenstein-like cape for a pose. I kid you not, he gave me a “James Dean” cool pose. His dad stared at him and said, “I don’t think she meant a fashion pose, son!” The kid looked at dad and said, “What did she mean?” Dad shook his head and said, “It’s Halloween! You’re dressed as a monster! You’re supposed to be scary. A scary pose!” The kid thought about this (still half in his James Dean pose) and then said, “I haven’t got one of those.”

I ask a lot of kids what they are supposed to be. Best answer of the night came from a 10-year-old girl with a curly blue, long wig, a red cape with shamrocks, white face paint and bright lipstick: “Well, I ah…I’m just…I’m a…random…guy.” ???? ooo-kay!

It was a nice evening–not too hot or too cold. Fair number of kids, and all of them polite!

Thanks Dad. For everything, but especially for telling me not to be a sissy and convincing me that I could do everything the boys could do. And then when I couldn’t, thanks for teaching me that everyone has limits and that’s okay. Recognizing my limits and my strengths has helped shape my life, made many choices a lot better and made some of the failures a little easier. Of course you never recognized my failures. Your take on it was always, “Get back on the horse. If that one won’t ride, find one that will.”

Giddy-up!

I try to visit my parents on their desert cattle ranch in New Mexico whenever possible. Occasionally, I out-clever myself and we meet somewhere. One year, that place was Palo Duro Canyon State Park in the Texas Panhandle.

My husband and I arrived at the cabin first. It was a nice stone building tucked along the top of the chasm. Outside, beautiful red-rock Spanish skirts decorated the landscape. Inside, two bedrooms were separated by a three-foot hallway. Strangely, there were no doors on either end of the short hallway. A sink and toilet was on one side of the hallway. Directly across from it, another glass door covered a shower. Anyone getting out of the shower had to step directly into the open hallway. If you were using the toilet, anyone walking through the very short hallway could see what you were doing. Then again, if you’re in the bathroom, I guess they already know what you are doing.

My husband and I moved our things into the room with the microwave and refrigerator because it had a double bed. The other room had a daybed with a twin stowed underneath. My parents tend to fight over who is hogging the bed when they try to sleep in a double. I figured they’d be happy about the twin beds and mildly unhappy about the strange engineering concept that put all the electronics in our room…their room had a light, but not a single electric outlet.

Since I had expected mom and dad to arrive an hour earlier, I hiked about a mile to the public telephone booth near the ranger station and reached dad on his cell phone. What followed was a typical father/daughter communication with a bad connection thrown in. “Where are you?” I asked.

Dad replied, “Highway forty, almost there.”

Since highway forty doesn’t lead to the park, “almost there” didn’t make any sense. As long as dad knows where he is, he can be maddeningly inexact. “Almost where?” I asked.

“Almost to Amarillo,” he replied. “I guess we’re going to stop and get dinner.”

“I thought we were going to grill food here?” I said.

“What?” he crackled back.

“Weren’t we going to grill?”

“Well, I don’t know where we are going to stop,” he replied. “We might get something grilled.” More crackling while I hinted that they had the food.

“I guess we can bring you some food.”

“No, I said…” The connection crackled. “Hello? Hello?” It was gone. Died. Calling back would do no good. Parents never listen to their children anyway.

I hiked back to the cabin and reported the development to my husband. Mom and dad had agreed to bring a cooler with steaks and burgers. My husband and I only had buns, potato salad and silverware.

“So what should we do?” he asked. “Eat potato salad?”

The wind was picking up and we didn’t really want to drive to Amarillo in search of a meal. If we were delayed and my parents arrived before we returned, we had the only keys to the cabin.

We waited. Two hours later, we were starved.

Dad’s only comment upon arrival was an innocent, “I didn’t know you were waiting for us to bring the food.”

“I told you we had the food,” my mother asserted.

“But weren’t you hungry?” he asked her.

“It doesn’t matter,” I interjected. “We have the food now.” It was seven o’clock and the wind was blowing very hard, which made it difficult to get the charcoal hot enough to grill.

While my husband and I ate, dad told us about the Italian restaurant in Amarillo. “It didn’t look like much and they had plastic forks, but the food was darn good!”

Mom agreed. “I didn’t want to stop there at all. Italian food is so expensive. I was just going to get a salad, but they had spaghetti and breadsticks. I could have eaten a dozen of those breadsticks.”

“And the price was right!” dad added. “You should drive up to Amarillo before you head back home and try it.”

“What was it called?” I asked.

They looked at each other. “Oh let’s see.” Dad scratched his almost gray hair. “It was–do you remember?”

Mom frowned. Her hair isn’t as gray as dad’s and she perms it so she has those little old lady curls. “No.”

The breadsticks and plastic forks rang a bell in the back of my mind. “Fazolis?” I guessed.

“That’s it!” they both shouted.

“How did you know?” my mom sputtered. “I thought you said you hadn’t been to Amarillo before!”

“It’s a chain,” I said with a grin. “You guys need to get out more often.”

It was downright blustery outside so we went inside to tell stories about growing up on the ranch and all the creepy crawling bugs and rattlesnakes that are in the desert. My husband, from tame Wisconsin, was not overly inspired by our enthusiast tales of survival.

Before long, a discussion started on the cabin design.

“Even if the second room was an add-on they could have put in electricity. The electrician must have been lazy,” dad decided.

“I guess the guy putting in doors was lazy too,” my husband said.

We examined the door frames to see if doors had ever been attached. “Maybe we could take the door off the water-heater closet and latch it onto the hallway opening,” I suggested.

Dad stroked his gray day-old stubble thoughtfully. “If you had thumbtacks you could at least hang a blanket. But my tacks are in the truck. We brought the car.” He carefully searched the cabin, but didn’t find tacks. All the while he mumbled, “You get out of the shower, your naked butt will be hanging out for all the world to see.”

From the look on my husband’s face, I was pretty sure he was not excited about this possibility.

Though we all stared at the doorway long and hard, no solutions appeared. The opening loomed.

(more…)

Went to get my passport photo today. This is actually the second try. Got up, remembered to “do” my hair instead of just wash and wear bag lady look. So yeah, that was me in the garden with rollers in, why?

Did my make-up too. Yeah, it took a while to find it in the bottom of the cupboard. No, I did not poke my eye out with the mascara brush. Did you know that mascara can get so old it actually dries up? Me either. Good thing there were two tubes and one was new. Well, it wasn’t dried out. “New” is kind of a relative term here.

I got to Walmart to have the photo done. Hmm. There were some awfully big 35 mile-an-hour gusts that hit me on my way inside. Guess it was windy today.

I headed back to the photo/electronic area.

“We don’t do passport photos back here. They do them in portrait in the front.”

“That’s weird. I was just in a Walmart yesterday and they told me to just go back to photo/electronics when I was ready to have it done.”

“Gotta go upfront. It’s cheaper at Walgreens, by the way.”

I frowned. “But the store yesterday said it was $7.50. Walgreens was $8.50!”

“It’s 10 bucks up front.”

*Sigh.* I go upfront. There is a line in portraits. Could all these people really need passport photos? I don’t think so. Who cares why they are here? I’m not waiting. I go shop. This Walmart doesn’t have a pill cutter–the one yesterday was also out. Okay, now I’m looking at having to stop at Walgreens. It’s fate.

I finish getting a few things and then visit my local HEB. It’s really windy out. I shop and while I’m at it, I check their pill cutters. SIX BUCKS? I’ll use a knife. Or scissors, or hell, smash it with my fist. I’m starting to get pretty annoyed.

I get done, and head back to the car. It’s still *really* windy. I wonder what I look like. I look in the mirror. Not so great. I comb and fluff my hair with my fingers. Okay, good enough.

I have to stop at the library because I have books on hold waiting for pick-up. More wind. They don’t have pill cutters either, but we all knew that. I check my hair again in the bathroom. It’s starting to look seriously lopsided. For gusting wind, it seems to be catching me all on one side. I used hairspray too, so it kinda stuck over that way. Well…So I’ll just tilt my head.

On to Walgreens. I get a spot in the shade, close to the store. Less wind!

I get inside. There’s no mirror, but what can you expect. It’s Walgreens. The guy pulls the white background screen down and leaves me standing there. And standing there. I use a glass window to check my hair. Hm…really not that great, but what can I do at this point?

Guy comes back. “I need to go get some new batteries.”

“Okay.”

He leaves. He’s gone. Walgreens isn’t that big. Maybe he had to go to Walmart. Their prices are cheaper. My hair is getting flatter by the moment. Or maybe it’s static from the white screen pulling on it.

He finally comes back. “On three.”

He doesn’t start counting. He gets closer. Than further away. “One, two…three.” Nothing. He looks at the camera. He holds it back up. “Okay, one…two…that’s pretty good.”

Yeah, thanks. Whatever.

He walks to the counter. He hands me a piece of paper. “Name and phone number.”

“For what? Don’t you just–”

“There’s a huge order in front of you. It’ll be at least 2 hours.”

I stare down at the paper. It flutters when someone opens the door. Windy. “Never mind. I’ll do this some other time.”

I can take a hint. It takes a while, but I can take a hint, already.

Sorry folks, this one is a tad blurry!

You’ll also notice, if you look closely, that it is NOT a red rose. Oh, but it is supposed to be! I specifically went in search of a rose like Grandma’s, comparing descriptions on the internet and even seeing some bloomed. Finally I settled on a Gypsy Rose. A nice bright red, big bloom and great smell.

I watched it grow. I watched the blooms form. Strangely they were kind of pinkish orange…sigh. The plant was mismarked! I was *very* disappointed, but the rosebush was planted. Worse, I had also bought a Miss All American Beauty–for the only other location that I could use for a rosebush. No more room for rosebushes.

This pretty orange rose smells very nice and lasts very well as a cut rose. Sadly, the bush is a *climbing* rose bush, which means I must spend more of my gardening time pruning it. At least the All American turned out to be a bush type, rather than a climbing type.

Rain Barrels Yup, you guessed it. Still needing a little bit of adjustment. Today I planned on emptying them, using the last of the water for the garden. Two things went awry. The water in the main barrel was beginning to smell–very, very bad. I think the oak pollen was happily rotting away. Secondly, after I propped them sideways, not all the water would actually drain. No way was I leaving that smelly water in there! So we had to disconnect the two barrels and empty the water out the overflow. The problem with this is that the connection was intended to be permanent–using tie-wraps. Looks like we need something that I can take on and off because I’ll definitely want to empty the barrels completely, especially during times of the year when there is potential for mold, smell and any other nasties that I haven’t thought of yet.

If anyone is looking for us, we’ll be at Wal-Mart and the auto store checking out hose clamp type things to find something that can be taken on and off.

I have a mother-in-law file that includes stories about mom. Some are about mom and dad. This one is about dad.

I recently planned a trip to DC–taking my parents from NM and my husband and I from Austin and spending a few days touring the museums. Dad loves museums, but with his eye condition, he’s a lot slower getting around than he used to be. This means I have to plan trips where he can do things at his own pace. He hates getting on a plane, however. Or being in public where he might run into someone. Or…well he has a lot of excuses for any activity that is outside his immediate comfort zone.

But I plan the trips and he goes anyway. This morning, on the phone, I asked him if he was excited about the upcoming trip to DC.

“I’m not going there.”

“Yes you are.”

“Nooo, I’m not.”

As if he hasn’t been bragging left and right about this trip. Mom has already mentioned that he’s told all the neighbors and half the relatives.

A little while later in the conversation he asked, “How many days are YOU going to be in DC?”

Eye roll. “You’re going to be there 3 days.”

“I heard about this really great tour bus ride,” he said.

“What is it called?”

“Red (the neighbor) told me about it. It sounds like it would be neat.”

“What’s it called?”

“It’s a tour bus. It goes to a lake and monuments and all the places.”

ARGH. I’m sure there is only one such tour bus ride. Should be easy to find. NO PROBLEM.

* * *

I sent dad a bedspread for an early father’s day present (he’s been asking for a new one. I got him a handwoven wool one from Spain.) When I asked if he liked it:

“It’s nice, but I don’t know if I like it yet. Lots of blue.” For dad, there are no simple questions. Liking a bedspread involves how well it fits on the bed. How well he likes it over time. Is it warm enough? Is it too warm?

“Did you notice the other side is the opposite colors–brown/blue?” I asked.

“No, they are the same.”

“No, they are not.”

“I’m gonna check.” Pause. “Yup, they are the same.” Pause. “Blue and brown and…” pause… “There’s blue on both sides, but there’s more white on this side. Or maybe brown.”

Yeah, maybe.

A few days ago, my mom called. She’s at that endearing age where senior citizen meets new-fangled appliances. “Is your husband there?” she asked.

Why would she ask for him? I proceed with caution. “Why?”

“I have a question,” she replies innocently.

“Uh-huh. What is the question, and why aren’t you just asking me?”

“He fools with electronics, so I want to ask him how to wire the television to the satellite system to the VCR and TV.”

Silence while I contemplate shooting myself. “Uh…” I croak out.

“We had to move the entertainment center and disconnect some of the wires,” she chirped. “Now we can’t get everything working again.”

“And you think that we can fix this OVER THE PHONE?”

“Of course. You live 750 miles away, so we have to fix it by phone.”

“Uh, mom…”

“So,” she says brightly. “We have a few cables that aren’t plugged into anything anymore. Which one do we connect to the TV and which to the VCR?”

I hang my head. I look at my husband in desperation. He is giving me the wary eye already. I go ahead and explain to him, “Uh dear,” I say, “my mother disconnected the VCR from the satellite–”

“Oh no,” he says. “We can’t help her. What, is she crazy?”

“Just tell me where to plug it in,” mother says in my ear.

I sit down. “Okay, mom. Let’s start at the beginning. There should be a cable coming out of the wall. It’s the cable coming from the satellite on the roof. What is that cable plugged into?”

“Cable from the wall? There’s no cable in the wall.”

We go round and round until she realizes there is a cable coming out of the wall. Apparently it is the first time she has ever seen this cable in her life.

“Don’t worry about that one,” she says happily, “we didn’t move THAT one.”

“Mom, I can’t see any of this so let’s just start with that cable. What does it hook to?”

My husband interrupts. “It better hook to the satellite dish.”

“The white box,” mom says in my ear.

“Is the white box the satellite dish system?” I ask. “The one that you point the remote control at when you want to turn it on?”

“No, it’s the white box. You know, where that wire goes and then there are some plugs.”

I have no idea what she is talking about. I make her read all the labels on the box and after five minutes we finally figure out the white box is a surge protector for both the satellite signal and for regular power cords. By now, my dad has decided to “help.” What this means is extreme arguing is going on in the background.

“I didn’t unplug that one,” dad shouted. “Why would it go there? I didn’t mark that cable as “wall,” I marked it “VCR!!!”

I ignore all protests. Over the phone, we faithfully follow each cable around to its connecting part. Mind you, mom doesn’t know a power cord from a coax cable so I have to describe the coax cable as, “The round cable with the metal end that has a needle coming out the center.” That alone took 10 minutes. We go through this with every connection. My husband is yelling instructions and demanding to know what each connector says and if it is color-coded or not. We’re trying to figure out where to plug everything in– ALL WITHOUT SEEING ANY OF IT.

“No, it still doesn’t work,” mom says after we have it all arranged as perfectly as possible.

“What exactly do you mean when you say it doesn’t work?” I ask. (Note to self–Start HERE FIRST next time.)

“The VCR light doesn’t come on.”

Sinking in the pit of my stomach as I repeat in amazement, “THE VCR LIGHT DOESN’T COME ON???”

My husband glares at me. “IS IT PLUGGED IN?”

Since mom can hear my husband yell, she replies, “We just plugged in everything you told me to plug in.”

“Mom,” I say with amazing patience, “is it plugged into POWER?” My husband and I must be earning loads of tokens to heaven for this exercise.

“Power? To what?” my mother asks.

“The VCR,” I reply.

“What do you mean power? I just told you the light isn’t coming on!”

“MOM,” I scream, “THERE IS A POWER CORD FOR EACH PIECE OF EQUIPMENT.
ELECTRICITY!!!!!!! TWO PRONGS ON THE END, GOES INTO THE WALL. IS THE VCR PLUGGED IN??????”

Silence. “I thought you told me to take the cable that came from the wall and plug it into the white box.”

Where is my gun??? WHERE?

Husband is yelling. Dad is yelling. Mom is telling me that maybe she can talk my little brother (who lives 2 hours away) into coming to fix the problem. “If he hurries he can make it before the news. You know I can’t miss the news!”

“Mom,” I say again. “You have to plug the VCR power cord into the wall or into the surge protector.”

(Mom has already forgotten what the surge protector is. I convince her to plug it into a wall outlet just to make it easier.)

“Hey,” she reports happily, “the little green light came on!”

We have power! Okay. Now we go through the motions of trying to “power” everything else up–Ah, but there aren’t enough wall outlets nearby–so of course I have to explain once again what the surge protector is and how to use it.

“I plugged the TV into the white box, but it won’t turn on,” mom informed me.

“AHA,” I shout. “The surge protector is blown!” (Either that or it shot itself at the beginning of this exercise.)

“Oh, well if that is the broken thing, that’s easy,” mom says. “Tell me how to cable around it because I CANNOT be without my TV…”

I try to think of these calls as quality family time. I try to remember her endless patience when I was a child and she had to wait for me to dress, to eat or learn to ride my bike. It’s that or move next door so that every time the toaster isn’t plugged in I can send my husband over to do it.

Did we get the TV working in time for the news?

Well, yes. But it took another half-hour of quality time spent together on the phone.