IN BLOOM

Texas Bluebonnets

Texas loves its wildflowers.  And what’s not to love?  Ditches full of Bluebonnet, Indian Paintbrush, Black-Eyed Susan, Lenten Rose, and Cornflower – a kaleidoscope of periwinkle, scarlet, pink, and gold.  The affect is stunning.  Of course, the Midwest has its share of wildflowers too.  Queen Anne’s lace creates snowy clouds, not long after the snow melts.  The Midwest doesn’t embrace its wildflowers like Texas does though.  Perhaps it’s Lady Bird Johnson’s legacy.  She put Texas wildflowers on White House china and suddenly, the world was enthralled.

Tim and I took a road trip recently to Fredericksburg, Texas.  The glory of spring filled the ditches – bright blossoms enjoying their moment before burnt by the summer sun.  Although Fredericksburg is a lovely old Texas town, we didn’t bother with the shops or German bakeries, we headed east to Wildseed Farm. It’s an amazing place.  Two hundred acres of wildflowers are cultivated and the seeds harvested.  Fields of bluebonnets and poppies were in bloom when we were there, as well as a meadow of mixed varieties.

Bluebonnets and Poppies

The visual display couldn’t help but remind me of the Keukenhof Gardens in the Netherlands.  The gardens, located southeast of Amsterdam, near the North Sea coast, are surrounded by tulip fields in every shade of red, yellow and purple.  The gardens themselves are an opportunity for the talented local growers to show-off during blooming season.  The visual displays are extraordinary.  For centuries, Keukenhof was part of the estate of the Teylingen Castle.  In 1949, however, the Mayor of Lisse encouraged local flower bulb growers to create an exhibition, and the rest, as they say, is history.  The annual event attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors each spring.  

Fields near Keukenhof Garden, the Netherlands

My family and I spent Spring Break 2006 in the Netherlands.  (We were living in Poland at the time and the Netherlands was a bit closer than Panama Beach.)  We visited Keukenhof and were awestruck.  Whenever someone asks me what they should see when visiting Europe and, if they’re going in the spring, Keukenhof is always on the list.

These incredible displays remind me that I am not much of a gardener.  My mother is, always has been.  She instilled in me an appreciation, but definitely none of the skill.  I actually attended a class at the San Antonio Botanical Garden recently.  The class was especially for newcomers to San Antonio – what grows here and how.  The drought-tolerant species, which were the focus of the class, bear little resemblance to what grows in the Midwest.

Molly, John and I at Keukenhof, 2006

When I pointed out some of the wildflowers I recognized from our visit to Wildseed Farm to the instructor, she asked if I liked them.  When I said “yes,” she replied, “Great.  If you plant them, they’ll spread well.”  And if I don’t like them?  “They’re invasive.”  Perspective.

Texas sunshine is bringing heat and signaling summer’s arrival.  Many wildflowers won’t tolerate the temps.  I’ll have to wait another year for ditches full of rainbows.  Since I can’t manage a trip to the Netherlands every spring, Texas roadsides substitute nicely.

KEEPING IN TOUCH

I like Facebook.  I admit it.  But before I lose the naysayers and doubters, please spare me a minute to explain.

Facebook is a means of keeping in touch, a social media tool.  And like any tool, it can be misused and abused.  I’ve heard the stories, read about the scandals.  Any tool can be threatening in the wrong hands, even a screwdriver.

Facebook can be an extraordinary tool.  It’s no wonder businesses have gotten on the social media band wagon.  They can have immediate access to their constituency.  They don’t have to wait for sales circulars to make their way through the postal system.  They can let the interested know about their White Sale instantly.

Personally, I don’t “like” many businesses on Facebook.  I don’t want to be inundated with news of the latest item on their shelves.  Instead, I want to connect with people – friends and family.

It’s incredible.  I am in contact with people I haven’t seen in years.  People I never thought I would see or hear from again.  People who touched my life at various moments and various ages and then disappeared.  They are suddenly back in my life.  We have reconnected.  Let’s face it; letter writing is a lost art.  I wouldn’t get a note or phone call from them. But they’re there.  On Facebook.  Photos of their kids and their dogs.  Snippets of their lives.

I am in contact with people from Kindergarten, high school, and  graduate school.  There are people from my work life - from teaching at Nora Springs to the research office at SIUE, the Kirkwood Area Chamber of Commerce and the Walker-Scottish Rite Clinic.  There are friends that I made through my children and husband, through choir, through the theatre.

Facebook creates a connection I wouldn’t have otherwise.  I am not good about picking up the telephone.  My family isn’t either.  Except my mother.  She is the great exception to the rule.  The phone rings at her house constantly.  She is the hub of all information; she is the center of the grapevine.  It used to be that I only knew as much as mother knew or mother remembered to tell me (Remembered is the operative word, as I can’t count the number of times my mother said to me, “Didn’t I tell you that?”).  Not any longer.  Because of Facebook, I can even beat her to a scoop on occasion

Living so far from family, whether it’s 350 miles or 1,000 miles, I often felt “out of touch.”  No more.

I will admit that it’s possible to be exposed to too much information, but I’ve quickly learned what to scan, what to block, and what to ignore.

I recently celebrated a birthday.  I was showered with warm wishes – via Facebook.  It was incredible.  People who wouldn’t know when my birthday was, let alone send a card, took a few moments to wish me well.  My heart was warmed.  That is when Facebook really shines.  Besides wishes, Ana who was a foreign exchange student from El Salvador during my senior year of high school sent me a virtual cake  Steve, who I know from my theatre life B.C. (before children), sent me a virtual birthday squirrel.  And John, who I’ve known since our sons were in Kindergarten together, sent me videos of Elvis and a pig singing (not together) “Happy Birthday.”  Each of these people walked through my life at different times and different places, but continue to touch my days through Facebook.

When people say they don’t like Facebook or they don’t trust it, I have to shrug and smile.  I got to see photos of my cousin’s children this morning and catch up with friends in St. Louis via Facebook.  It made me smile and that’s all that really matters.

THE GREEN SIDE

My world has been invaded by the “dark side.”  Or perhaps the green side is more accurate.

I hadn’t anticipated the attack.  The invasion was thorough and violent.  Rebel forces were miles away.  Recovery was slow, barely holding symptoms at bay.

Death Star or Pollen.  They’re both brutal. 

Just as the Jedi generally had some idea that the Empire was due to attack, most springs I know hay fever is around the corner.  Not this year.  I mistakenly thought that a move to Texas meant I could forego allergy season.  I thought the dry weather and lack of many deciduous trees would mean a reprieve.  I was wrong.

Maybe I listened to our son John a bit too much.  He often teases us about moving to the desert and not remembering our names.  “…because in the desert you can’t remember your name, cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain,” he sings, smirking.  The sandy soil, the palm trees, the mesquite and cacti had him fooled.  They fooled me too.

I tried to convince John that San Antonio was a semi-arid plain and it is…sort of.  It’s on the cusp of semi-arid and subtropical, which must afford enough mix of rain and sunshine to lure pollen-producing plants. 

I tried to ignore pollen’s arrival – the pale green haze on cars and patio furniture, on carts at the grocery store and the gas grill.  When my sinuses were screaming in pain, I tried to convince myself it was a cold.  I would recover any day…any day….

Denial has given way to acceptance.  I’m religiously taking Zyrtec and buying Kleenex in bulk.

I was ready for change, whatever change Texas could throw at me.  A reprieve from allergies is one change I would have welcomed gladly and one I’ll have to live without.

MY GIFT TO LIFE

Molly and I, 1993

There’s a pillow on my sofa that’s seam is coming undone.  Threads are frayed around it.  I’d like to fix it (even with my limited sewing skills), but it’s too far gone.  So I tuck the expanding hole to the back of the sofa and pretend it’s not there.  My daughter Molly found the hole while she was home for Spring Break, which is appropriate and somewhat ironic, as I fiddle with another quickly unraveling hole where Molly is concerned - this one in my heart.

Molly will graduate from Truman State University on May 10 and begin work at Principal Financial Group in Des Moines on June 1.  The transition marks the end of an era and the beginning of a new one.  Molly will have her own home in Des Moines (we helped her with the apartment hunt in March).  There will be no more Spring Breaks or long Christmas vacations.  There will be no more middle-of-the-afternoon phone calls from her as she walks across campus.  No more angst over class schedules or roommates.  No more studentness.

2005

Instead, she will be at the mercy of the corporate world.  She will pay her bills and become slave to the alarm clock and accrued vacation.  She is joining the adult world with adult worries.  And our relationship will change.

Like a gossamer thread unraveling between my fingertips, I feel the loss of my little girl with every fiber of my being – the slow unraveling, the slipping away.  Part of me wants to hold her tight and not let go.  The other part, the rational part, knows that that’s not the way the world works.

Charles M. Blow, New York Times, wrote about his own children:  “…my children are not truly mine. They don’t belong to me; they’ve simply been entrusted to me. They are a gift life gave to me, but one that I must one day give back to life.” 

2014

If I have to give her up to life, life is in for a treat.  She’s an amazing young woman – intelligent, kind, and loyal with a sharp mind and killer sense of humor.  She inherited a bit of my creativity and a lot of her dad’s analytical dexterity.  Principal is lucky to have her.

Tim and I had hoped she’d find her way to San Antonio when job hunting.  We even made sure a room was waiting for her in our new home, but fate didn’t wish to play that game.  Instead, fate’s sardonic sense of humor is taking Molly to Iowa, the place I left 30 years ago.

When I was first facing the “empty nest,” my Aunt Julie advised, “From the beginning they were not really yours, you were just given the privilege of being their parent ...” It has indeed been a privilege, one that I will hold in my heart.  Always. 

And so I let her go - the child, the student - and look forward to this new adult.  Life has big plans for my Molly.  As her mom, my role has changed.  I will still worry.  (Isn't that what mothers do best?)  But I also get to sit back and watch with awe and wonder, as her life unfolds.

INTO THE FRAY

I was at Target recently.  Of course.  I traversed the familiar aisles, loading my cart with Kleenex and laundry soap and the usual collection.  But when I pushed my purchases outside, I was momentarily lost.  I didn’t know where I was.

With all Targets laid out in a similar fashion, I had been lulled into a sense of the familiar.  And when I walked outside, the familiar was gone.  I suspect my psyche was still looking for a Missouri parking lot, the one on Kirkwood Road, no doubt.  But it wasn’t there.

I shook my head, got the neurons firing, and I was back in San Antonio, but for a moment, I missed the familiar.

After eight months in Texas, I didn’t expect to still be acclimating.  And yet, I am.

I have acclimated to some things quickly.  I do not miss ice and snow and sub-zero temperatures, the awkward nozzles on St. Louis gas pumps, St. Louis-style pizza (cheddar cheese atop a pizza, really?), robo-calls from the school district, trucks blocking Blase Avenue.

But I miss the familiar, the familiarity of getting behind the wheel of my Ford and driving as if by remote control because I know the way so well, placing my coffee order at Kaldi’s, sliding into the back row of choir, laughing at old jokes, meeting up at the Galleria, scouring my brain for trivia and flexing my competitive muscles, spying a familiar face at the grocery store, inhaling the incredible smells at DiGregorio’s, recognizing names in the local newspaper, and knowing there was always someone to call in a pinch.

There’s something comfortable in the familiar, like an easy chair on a rainy afternoon. 

The unfamiliar is a challenge.  The unfamiliar has become my way of life.  The unfamiliar is not necessarily unfriendly, but it’s always unexpected, always a surprise.

But as Paulo Coelho writes, “…there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not yet ready.  The challenge will not wait.  Life does not look back.”

So I Google map my every move and plunge forward.  Ready or not, here I come!  Eyes wide open.

To quote T.S. Eliot, “If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?”

I’m feeling pretty tall…

WAITING FOR SUMMER

I miss our pool.

When we built our house in San Antonio, we put in a pool.  It wasn’t part of the plan.  It wasn’t even a plan for “some day.”  But somehow, we ended up with one. 

I wanted a water feature.  I wanted the calming tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of a gentle fountain.  So we met with the guy doing the patio and the landscaping to discuss a water feature.  The conversation grew grander and suddenly, for just a few dollars more, we were envisioning a swimming pool in our new backyard.

I agonized over this decision, even after it was made.  I especially feared we wouldn’t use it enough to warrant the addition, especially since I can’t swim – never have.  I float all right.  I enjoy getting wet.  That’s about it.  It seemed an outrageous extravagance, but if there was ever a city to have a pool in, San Antonio seemed to be it.

Even the prospect of caring for the pool didn’t sway us.  Immediately, we signed up for Pool School.  Our pool company would send someone to our home to teach us how to care for our pool. 

When we did our final walk-through of the new house, we ambled from room to room, making notes for the builder of what needed to be done yet and mental notes of what piece of furniture would go where.  When we went through the back door and gazed at the backyard that had been all theory until then, I was stunned.  The pool was lovely - three graceful arcs, hitting the water with gentle plops; the flagstone surround; the lush plantings; the alluring turquoise surface.

The pool became salvation during the weeks while we waited for our belongings.  We had no television, no games, no books, not even clothes to hang in the closets; but, we were amused by the pool.  John built boats out of milk jugs.  We floated and smiled (when smiles were hard to come by.)

We arranged for Pool School.  My sister-in-law Carla teased me about the pool boy who would be our instructor.  She winked about Speedos and 6-pack abs.  I waited with breathy anticipation for the arrival of the pool master, my pencil and paper at the ready.  Tom was…unexpected.  Tom was probably 60 years old and looked 80.  His white hair stood out from his head in wild tufts.  His company-issued shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a generous gut hanging over the waist of his jeans.  He pulled the shirt open further to show me the scar from his quadruple bypass, because, as Tom contends, “those cigarettes and tortillas will kill ‘ya.”  (Personally, I think tortillas are getting a bad rap, but I didn’t debate it with Tom.)  He wiped his heavily-perspiring forehead with a red bandana, as he puttered around our pool, muttering that “any idiot could take care of a pool.”  As we didn’t consider ourselves idiots, it became our mission to learn the ropes; however, I couldn’t seem to put pen to paper.  No notes appeared on the pad.  Instead, I gawked at Tom. 

He complained about replacing his cell phone every couple of months, because the phones kept falling into pools.  This comment was made as he slipped his current phone into the breast pocket of his shirt and bent over the pool to pull the Polaris from its depths.  I held my breath; sure another phone was on its way into the brink.  When Tom finally made his departure, we watched him go with dropped jaws, berating one another in quiet tones for not having taken a photo of this character.  (I hope my description does him justice.)

Despite dubious care instruction, we've managed to maintain and enjoy the pool.  Now we miss it.

Like the rest of the country, San Antonio is having the coldest winter in recent history.  Too cool for a dip.  But gentle sprays continue to break the placid water and I am reminded that summer will eventually return.

94 YEARS IN THE MAKING

Today is my grandmother’s 94^th birthday.

Marian Schulz is a marvel.  She is my inspiration.  She still lives on her own, in her own house.  She still drives her little SUV and talks state troopers out of tickets.  She had her knee replaced so she could continue to dance.  Her calendar is full of parties and appointments.  Her clothes are contemporary and her jewelry statement pieces.  She is quick with a laugh and equally quick at making the lowly quake with fear.  She is a rock, the core of our family.

Marian Arp Schulz, age 18

This Christmas, I missed celebrating the holiday with my grandmother and extended family for the first time in years.  We always travelled from St. Louis, despite weather and timing, but now the distance is too much.

When I was growing up, Christmas Eve on the farm with Grandpa and Grandma was something I looked forward to all year.  But as the family grew and changed, so did Christmas.  The farm is gone.  So is Grandpa.  But Grandma still invites her brood to gather for the holidays…all 60 of us!  She still brings her Southern Comfort punch, even if she can’t drink it.  (That was a lesson learned the hard way, when a couple glasses of punch made her defibrillator “zap” her one Christmas.  I imagine her cardiologist told her she shouldn’t drink alcohol, but that was one instruction she conveniently forgot.)

Even though I didn’t make it to the party, I received my Christmas gift from Gram.  It was a book.  Of her stories.

The book was the brainchild of my mom and Aunt Julie.  They sat Grandma down, asked her to tell them her stories, while they added ones of their own.  Grandma talks of growing up on the farm and becoming a farmer’s wife, of raising her children and losing a son.  She talks of hard work and heartbreak, love and laughter.  They are the stories of a life.  I have received few gifts as precious.

Gram, Julie, Mom

In this book, she also found a way to impart words that might have gone unsaid, words that might have waited for a better time and never found one.  These are hers:  “You can love your children with all your heart, rejoice for them, grieve for them, and try to help, but in the end, with luck, you are alone with the man you’d chosen to live with.  In the end, there is something to be said for the undemanding life that is compensation for growing old.  You had your regrets and disappointments, even a kind of haunting depression knowing that any day it could all end.  But mostly you give thanks for what you had in the past and what you hoped for in the future – for health and serenity, for yourself and the ones you love.  Life was more kind than cruel.”

Life has always been more kind with you in it, Gram.  Happy Birthday.