Suburban Island

Heart-Shaped Poo

Oh, snap! Nature loves me this week. At least that's what I think given recent indicators provided to me by Mother Nature herself. After all, Mother Nature has got to be the first to recognize that a mother needs some encouragement once in awhile. I knew for sure that Mother Nature was giving me some props for just managing to keep my head above water in daily life when the heart-shaped poo appeared on my front windshield. I tried to take a picture of it just because I thought that nobody would believe the heart-shaped bird poo decorating my windshield but I couldn't get a good photo and besides, I don't want to post a picture on the web of bird poop no matter what shape it is.

There's a few other things that have occurred that make me think that Mother Nature is checking in to give me boost this week. There are the mushrooms that have sprung up like crops of spaceships on the front yard. These things look weird and consequently they are retained on our lawn like cheesy lawn ornaments from the local discount store. It's not just me who finds them fascinating. One of my son's friends ran down the street carrying two of these huge mushrooms like Olympic torches just the way Rocky might after climbing one too many Philadelphia landmark steps in an unexpected sequel. I don't know what to say about the mushroom run except remember what happened to Alice and put the mushrooms down.

Best of all though, a beautiful tiny lavender-blue butterfly was flitting around the yard when I pulled up in my car - pre-heart-shaped poo - and landed right on the tassel of my teal and cream stadium pumps. I guess the tassel looks like an exotic flower. It stayed there until my foot started to go numb for all that standing still and then fluttered away into the big blue afternoon.

Thanks, Mother Nature, for these little pick me ups. Now If you could just arrange a field of diamonds in the backyard, I think we'd really be cooking. In the meantime, I sincerely appreciate the rain. It washed the heart-shaped poo away before I lost my love of nature.

The Driveway

When I was a kid, there was a neighbor who used to sit, every evening in the summer, on his driveway watching the world go by and smoking his cigarettes. They were menthol cigarettes. He did this every night. He sat there in a white metal chair at a white metal table – quiet by himself - smoking his cigarettes and perhaps pondering life. I think he drank coffee out there too. Maybe it was a beer but I don’t think so – I think it was mugs of coffee. As a kid I am sure that I thought this was all a bit strange because my parents seemed to think this behavior was a bit out of place – not creepy weird but kind of trailer park. If it was trailer park then trailer park definitely got it right but I didn't realize that yet. You really didn’t see anyone else sitting on their driveway smoking cigarettes at the time. It was in the day before decks were everywhere. Maybe there were patios here and there. There were tiny front porches – not made for chairs or lounging. The top end of the driveway was all the man had. At the time I couldn’t understand it but now I do.

That’s because I find myself regularly sitting at the top of my own driveway watching the world go by - and maybe sometimes pondering life. I have taken a certain pleasure in this summer evening activity for the last few summers. I must say that sitting at the top of the driveway listening to the last birdsong for the day, the humming of the insects, and the small activities of the neighborhood is one of the best things I do in the summer to wind down in the evening. I think my parents would be slightly appalled. Somehow I find that much more amusing than a grown up woman should.

So far tonight, the neighborhood has been hopping - two dog-walkers have passed by, one neighbor has been out grilling, the family next door has been doing a massive cleaning out of all their cars, a soccer match has taken place between dad and son across the street, and some bike riding has occurred. All around the birds are chirping and soaring across the sky, a train whistle sounds in the dusk, the insect noises are starting to ramp up, there’s a nice breeze, all the crepe myrtles are in bloom, and although I am not smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee, I am burning a big candle to drive away pesky bugs and swigging down a big iced tea. The grill is cooling down beside me. I feel relaxed and in this moment I realize very clearly that we don’t have to be fancy to be happy.

I like sitting on the driveway just like that neighbor of old did. I don’t care what people think just like he probably didn't. It’s just convenient, kind of peaceful, and appeals to my longing for simplicity. Of course, I’m saying this as I listen to my new At The Beach playlist I just put together on iTunes while I sit in front of my handy-dandy laptop composing this post. Maybe this is the new simple life – a laptop, a little music, a grill, a bug candle, a nice cold drink, and a table and chair at the top of the driveway.

I don't know for sure but it works for me.

Don’t Be a Deadhead

QUESTION: To deadhead or not to deadhead - that is the question.

WHAT I LEARNED: Nothing is sacred.

I need to make one thing clear to all. My Saturday and Sunday mornings are sacred. Don’t knock on my door. Don’t call me on the phone. Let me alone – just for a few hours. I am sleeping in.

Oddly, nobody wants to follow this simple rule of mine.

My early-riser husband seems to feel compelled to check in after morning coffee with his buddies to see what we are all doing. Telemarketers are drawn to give me a call on weekend mornings too. Ironically, I recently got a call from the phone company reminding me to pay my phone bill. It was before 8:30 in the morning. If only I would forget – permanently – my mornings would be quieter.

And while you are at it, do not disturb my roses in the morning either. Yeah, that means you, dear lady - the one who turned up at our front door last Saturday morning to say hello. My son was getting ready for work when she came a calling. A teenage boy getting ready for work tends to be noisy – very noisy – so my hopes of snuggling under the blankets for a little extra shut eye was really just a silly dream at that point anyhow.

He came upstairs to report her presence. He seemed rather distressed that the neighbor lady was outside. I was just a little surprised. I don’t get many morning visitors. He said she wanted to talk to me. He was concerned that I hurry. It seems the friendly visitor was “picking my roses” while awaiting my arrival. I headed downstairs as fast as I could. I was still half asleep. There was the neighbor lady – just sitting on my front porch – innocent as can be. I didn't see a bouquet of roses in her hand so I sat down next to her and in my sleepy state forgot about the roses in the glare of the morning sunshine. I focused on trying to figure out who this woman was instead. I had no idea. After a few minutes the mystery was solved. It seems that we had met at a holiday rotating dinner and she just wanted to stop by and say hi as she was passing by. That was almost six months ago. I guess I am either extremely memorable or she leads an exceptionally boring life.

We spent a few minutes in innocuous chatting and then I glanced over to a little table by the front door. It was so pretty. How strange. It was normally quite an ordinary table. Yet it was spectacularly pretty in that moment that I glance over at it.

That’s because it was covered with rose blossoms.

Now I was awake – wide awake. The little side table was totally covered with roses. My roses. Picked off at the head. Unless the woman carried rose shears with her, she must had ripped them off with her bare hands and then tidily placed them on the table.

Oh, she said, noticing that I had jumped up and was surveying the roses – I deadheaded your roses for you. Luckily my back was to her so she couldn’t see the horrified look on my face. My grandmother – she continued – was big on deadheading roses.

The roses on the table were perfect blooms not wilted shadows of their former selves.

I have heard about deadheading wilted or dead flowers from plants but not perfectly good blooms and certainly not other people's roses - in this case mine. You want to deadhead roses? Grow them in your own yard and then deadhead away. It would never occur to me to go into a stranger’s yard and start tampering with their plants. I was in shock. I mean – my roses are all picked and not even so you could put them in a vase. Their little beautiful rosy heads were just torn off and laid out for viewing. Well, so much for bouquets in hand. I swear, I could not have been more surprised if she had suddenly cut off a chunk of my hair as we were sitting beside each other on the porch.

My roses. She did pick them. A whole bunch of them.

Really, I guess I’m lucky her grandmother wasn’t big on breaking into houses, or dinging up cars, or street graffiti, or pulling the plants up right by their roots.

Without saying a word, I went into the house and found some shallow bowls. I filled them with water and floated the roses in them. I think her grandmother meant the roses in her own garden – not other people’s yards. I decided not to share this thought with my rose-picking neighbor. My primary goal was now to get her off my porch and away from my garden rather than to begin a dialogue regarding rose bush maintenance.

The conversation did seem to dry up soon after my discovery of the beheaded flowers lying in state on the little table by my front door. I just did not know what to say besides – what were you thinking?

She left soon after. I don’t think she’ll be stopping by for another visit again soon. At least I hope not.

I went back inside with my bowls of roses and a shocked look still plastered on my face. No one in my family could believe it when they saw the flowers on the kitchen counter. It made for lots of good weekend chatter. The unscheduled deadheading operation also made us all realize how much pleasure we get from looking at those rosebushes everyday as we come in and out of the house. Even my husband – never a rose man – had to admit it.

In the end, our front garden was a bit sparser – it was true - but perhaps all parties were just a wee bit wiser for it.