Back On The Chain Gang…

Almost through week #1 at work. The training week. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that those words resemble training wreck.

It’s a fun job with the train commute to the train station where I get out and follow the other condemned men to the cubicle farms. If I didn’t get to walk through one of the most interesting parts of the city (including a huge fresh food market) everyday I can see how people would end up looking like the walking dead.

The main train station is very close to the central business district so many of the commuters are going into sky-scraping bank and finance towers. I power pace in my jean jacket, back pack and t-shirts, passing on the left or right, literally running circles around the masses. It’s just not in me to conform. Or act my age.

I turned 49 yesterday. Not 50. 49. Three heterosexual office mates (the office is mixed, after all it is a television design show) all under 35 years old were shocked. Maybe I look older? Don’t judge by the heavily photoshopped picture up above, the one where I’m sans makeup, in the third day of a raging flu but had a fluky good hair day. That picture is a lie. Unless you think I look younger than 49.

I give full credit to fear. Fear comes from having a younger husband, a death-defying eight year old and a huge mortgage. Fear of dying keeps you working at being young, active, vital. It can also age you so you have to be careful of that precarious balance. I think at some point soon I’m going to have to dress my age, probably even act my age. But it’s just not in me to conform.

That will be my motto.

Until I turn 50.

The Purge…

You know how somethings just seem so great at the beginning but turn out to be a big waste of time?

(Beyond husbands, politics and education)

It didn’t seem obvious to me when I started visiting gossip sites. I found the information intriguing, funny, rude and light. What harm could there be in adding a few to my blog favourites? It’s just harmless gossip, right?

Wrong.

I had to read three sites (TMZ.com, E-news and the Awful Truth, NY Post) at breakfast time, then after nine AM I’d start random clicking onto Lainey’s site for updates throughout the day. By noon Crazy Days and Nights would start adding posts from the West coast, and I’d visit Perez throughout the day, too. I got hooked on the Tom Cruise vs SS saga at sentenial gatekeeper (sic) and numerous other Blind Item depots. All this instead of writing proposals, one pagers or even entries. I’m not sure why I didn’t see it as a handicap. I was all about the entitlement to the information. Plus it’s free and makes me look knowledgeable (to no one else but me!)

So in honour of ‘going back to work’ day tomorrow I decided it was time to clean house, not my actual house (one vice at a time, people, all things in moderation) but this box of a house that distracts my brain.

All the gossip sites have been deleted from my blog favourites and I’m going to make a conscious effort not to visit any -ever. It shouldn’t be as difficult as quitting smoking or following a food plan but there will be withdrawal symptoms. Even though the information garnered from the sites is just passive detritus in my head I still obsessively clicked on to the sites to fill my brain. Why any of that ever mattered is beyond my comprehension. Who cares. But I didn’t even try to stop -that’s the weird part. From now on my brain will focus on work, family and staying in touch with the lives that matter most and … all the other junk I’ve let the empty reading distract me from.

Gossip will always be fabricated, my real life, not so much.

The Beat Goes On….

It’s Saturday.

I’ve had my mid-afternoon reflection time (crying spell) after working the food bank and a spontaneous tailgate party with the neighbors… now it’s time to cook dinner. But it’s more interesting to be distracted by neighbors talking about perennials, plantings, hockey and baseball while attempting to shovel the maple tree junk off the driveway and sip a cool glass of Pinot Grigio (South Africa’s Flat Roof Manor).

I’ve missed my neighbors. It’s so nice to sit out and watch the kids wreck gardens playing football. The big boys are talking about tonight’s big game (‘Hockey?’, I asked) which will be followed by an outdoor gathering around the fire pit.

I love my neighbors. So much is unspoken and lovely. We cherish each other, our differences and our acceptance of those differences. Tonight we will amalgamate food wine, beer, other, in celebration of the big ‘game’. Kate’s assembling spicy salami, a variety of cheeses and cherries onto a platter of consumable goodness. I’ve retrieved the two extra pounds of roast pork, sliced, spiced and diced into a formidable partner to the crackers.

We’ll eat, laugh, wait for the children to reappear from their trip to Mickey Dee’s and it will be summer in our hearts. The chimenea is lit, the game is on, the guys are watching while the women avoid the game and we’re a community once more.

For The First Time…

in forever I feel complete joy looking at the two Magnolia trees blooming in the backyard. Chartreuse green leaves are poking out from behind the pink and white petals blowing off in the wind. The grass that was mauled, chomped, and destroyed during the reno has been replaced with lush green grass, prettier than I ever remembered it, thanks to the husbands diligence in planting grass seed before a heavy snowfall (ask him, I thought he was nuts).

My lilac tree is just about to burst into a riot of purple flowers. I thought it was a miracle considering the tree had to withstand three physical moves last year. Then again any old abandoned farm house usually has a lilac tree thriving somewhere outside of it. I recently read lilacs and rhubarb pretty much outlive everything, and probably would survive a nuclear holocaust. So, yeah, the rhubarb has riz and I’ve stored some in the freezer already and I’m ready to decorate with the lilacs when they fully bloom. Even the herbs that weren’t supposed to last another year have returned and look amazing. The peonies are getting taller, ready to burst and the new service berry trees have tiny white flowers all over, set against the sage-y green house the effect is spectacular.

So the point I’m trying to make is after a SAD winter and a seemingly endless two year adjustment to crack varietals and a life devoted to sardonicism, I can finally see colour and take joy in what’s around me again. This only works if you don’t look at the dog’s footprints on the recently cleaned wooden floor and the cat hair/dust balls in the sunlight. You have to look beyond that stuff toward the outdoors through the glass with your eyes squinted up so it’s just wonderful blurry colour.

Now if we could just get the outdoor temperature up so we can put away our woolies and turtlenecks and not fear a killer frost it would feel like an authentic spring awakening.

OH-tour…

Yeah, someone let me work a camera again. You’d think they’d learn but these are new people and they’ve been warned about my inability to hold a camera straight, luckily the shots will be very short and we can always fill the screen with titles and still photos.

But I get this weird feeling when I shoot. I can’t stop grinning. I love capturing images and telling a story through visuals. I love special effects, black and white cinematography and the graininess of super 8 to express strong dramatic content.

But that’s not what I do for a living. Nobody wants drama in my end of TV unless it’s completely manufactured to take place right before a commercial break. Tell me you didn’t think that was a coincidence. I spend a lot of time looking for manufactured cliff hangers designed to bring the viewer back after raiding the fridge. It’s called story editing and I spent most of my winter doing just that. Raiding the fridge, yes.

Working on a creative piece with creative people who are creating original music and original ‘moments’ is an incredible gift for me. It happens rarely and the only way I get to play is when I’m between contracts and I do it for free. I love these chances to explore the creative side of images to invoke emotion. It’s the hardest thing to do without getting kitschy or too cliche. You have to pull back at just the right time before it’ ‘embarrasses the viewer’. As grace would have it I’m doing this for a church. It’s a very creative church with lots of people willing to take risks and try knew ways of serving the gospel.
I’m excited about the videos we’re producing and it’s so much fun to get my neighbors and friends to be part of the vision. It’s an incredible challenge and I wish it were my full time job so I could do it forever.

That’s not going to happen though, I only have the rest of the week before I start my next contract. There’s something about a regular paycheck that makes it all ok. For now.

Food…

I’ve always thought my struggle with the ‘Eat, drink, then shrink’ roller coaster-diet was lame.

But my issues with food are meaningless compared to the greater need to feed hungry people in my own neighborhood. I needed to get over myself and do something. The church I now attend, the one recently placed at my doorstep hosts a Daily Bread Food Bank every Saturday. An invitation to come and volunteer was issued and I had no excuse NOT to help.

It was Mother’s Day weekend (a great conversation-starter) and my job was to help people repack their boxes of food into bags, carts or buggies. Instead of a gloomy scene, the place was lively and hopping -well at least I was. A smile and a laugh is the same in any language and if you’ve ever seen me pack groceries -well it’s pretty sad, but hysterically funny to some people. For the most part the canned goods ended up on the bottom and the eggs on top and in all only one egg was sacrificed in the packing, ok two!

I got to be a mom, a clown, a friend, a hand, a nag,
“You will eat all your fruit and vegetables” I commanded to a young boy helping his mom. His mother just grinned while we packed the carrots and onions into her cart.

“You will get big and strong so you can carry ALL the groceries” I said handing a bag to him. He showed me how strong he was lifting the bag up to shoulder height, smiling.

“Excellent! You’re so strong!” I cheered.
“Don’t forget to wish your mom a happy mother’s day tomorrow!” I whispered.

“You’re obviously a mom.” a man of about 60 said to me. He had a detailed system of packing his black duffle bag.

“I shows, huh? Hey, it looks like you learned precision packing from my mom. I was away that day.” I joked.

Children often have the responsibility of interpreting for parents, they pick up the language quicker because they’re taught English via ESL classes in most schools and then get integrated into classrooms.
These children are precious, they know the weight they carry for their parents and it makes them seem much more grown up.

“Happy Mother’s Day” I said to a young Spanish speaking mom from Columbia.

“Happy Mother’s Day” she said, smiling back at me.

“She knows what that means!” her son said, excitedly.
“I made her a surprise for tomorrow!” he whispered to me just in case.

Social workers are there to register new users, Olga (who looks exactly like she sounds) keeps a watchful eye out for new people (she’s been doing it for 9 years at various locations) and calls out the numbers for people to get into the grocery line like she’s calling a game of Bingo. Everyone listens to Olga. Welfare recipients gain their volunteer hours manning the food distribution stations but you wouldn’t know it until you see them collecting their own food at the end of the day. Church goers, social service workers, translators and recipients blend together. The economic blinds come down and we are all just people helping each other. We are respectful, kind, patient, loving, and funny.
Everybody served receives a week’s worth nourishment, a smile and a “God Bless You” and what I get back is immeasurable.

This is a great essay.
http://thisibelieve.org/dsp_ShowEssay.php?uid=44482&topessays=1”

“How Do I Get To The Concert Hall?”

We’ve all heard the answer, “Practice, practice, practice”.

Have you heard the one about the eight year old who worked hard to get OUT OF playing the concert hall? Not yet.

For months we’d heard that the third-graders had the opportunity to play at Roy Thompson Hall with the Toronto Symphony. We greeted the news as any proud parents would, we gushed.

“That’s incredible! You’re going to accompany the Toronto Symphony! That’s BIG!” we shouted.

“I don’t care I don’t want to”, the eight year old said flatly.

We just brushed it off as nerves.

The campaign to NOT go began in earnest.

“There will be people there watching, listening. I don’t like that at all”, he railed.

“That’s the fun part the audience is one of the reasons we perform the other reason is that we love to play”, I encouraged.

“But I don’t really like the recorder and I don’t like playing it and I don’t like playing it with an orchestra in a big concert hall and I don’t want to go there”, he retorted.

“Honey I support you and everything you do and this is a great opportunity to feel what it’s like to perform in front of a large crowd and hear the applause and fantasize that you are Judy Garland in the Wizard of Oz singing in front of the whole world and the whole world is cheering because the whole world adores you”, I thought, but realized that was MY childhood fantasy. He just wants to be the cool kid on the skateboard trying to kill himself on wheels in a variety of ways.

“But honey I support you and everything you do and once you are playing you’ll see what a great experience it is”, was what I should have said.

“You’re going”, is what came out.

We got a sneak peak at his school’s music night. First we had to listen to the fifth grade string players. My elbow was firmly planted in the husbands side the whole time so I could hold his laughing out loud hostage. I have great sympathy for anyone learning a stringed instrument, especially the violin, the learning curve is out there for everyone to hear and it is usually cringe-worthy to have to listen. The husband plastered a wide grin on his face but I know if I let my elbow relax we would have been in trouble. The husband has a wee bit of a cruel streak which comes out in the form of loud laughter especially if someone unexpectedly trips and falls within eye shot. After the last note was almost played, the third graders came out and presented three musical selections including the one that will be accompanied by the TSO. It was pleasant enough. Most of the notes worked together. One or two were obviously faking it, but it didn’t ruin the experience. I kept an eye on the husband every time a sour note sounded but he was still feeling the affects of the elbow in the gut and remained well behaved. The eight year old had a great smile on his face. He really did enjoy performing in front of an audience.

Today he was packed up for the school trip. He had his lunch, too-short pants on, too short socks on and a blue button down shirt. The husband gel-d his hair as I buttoned his shirt.

“I feel famous”, he said.

The husband cracked up.

It’s going to be a memorable day for him with many more to come in his life whether he’s performing for an audience or just going to school. But I wish for him to always have music -everyone needs a soundtrack for their life.

Powter Puff Post!

She’s baaaaaaaack!
The other she who shook me awake from my post-nicotine withdrawal, lard-puppet impersonation state 15 years ago and got me moving!
Susan freaking Powter.

She was mostly annoying to the masses, her comely face would grow distorted and she would plead in her strained, fake thee-ah-tah-trained voice, “If you’re not IN oxygen, you’re OUT of oxygen!” I loved her. I emulated her confidence for moments at a time, slowly gaining the real thing as I tried her personality on for size. I loved her ability to encourage and motivate her fitness class attendees who would blush at her zealous compliments. Loved that she felt free to compliment another woman and make her feel great. We didn’t do that with such energy until Susan Powter. She broke a barrier for me and got me into shape -just by her words and example. Trust me when I say I’m not easily influenced by anyone, I’m more cynical and untrusting than anyone I know yet I followed her voice, happy to be led to get me moving and enjoying life again when it wasn’t there inside me. Her fitness video was part of my everyday.

It was the badly edited video version that showed her class participants looking dry and fresh, then sweaty and wet, then dry again in the course of four moves. The moves weren’t matched up, the rhythm was off from what I would say was a bad ‘insert’ edit and it made that part excruciatingly long. It made me laugh picturing the editor looking at the footage, thinking the moves looked similar enough to just dump in hoping no one would notice. But the workout made the step my favourite thing to do in the world. My then five year old daughter wanted her own step so she could work out with me so we asked her dad if on one of her weekends with him, he could make her one. He didn’t ‘get’ why she wanted a step but he came through by cobbling a wide pine board together with short risers on the sides. It was cute to watch her trying to keep up with me, stepping up one inch and back down again, lasting about 45 seconds of the 45 minute workout.

Rosie is promoting her new book and she’s linked to her site www.susanpowteronline.com, so go see her. Instead of being almost bald she has crazy dreds and glasses and again she talks about the truthiness in the food industry and how we can get rid of that fat (fat makes you fat, you eat fat, you get fat). She looks great, her image has been updated, recycled, re-branded and instead of rolling my eyes when I saw her I was actually happy to see her face and hear voice again -like an old familiar army Sergeant. Welcome back, Seargent Powter, sir!

Worky McWorkenstein…

She’s baaaaaaack.

No, not full time. Please. It hasn’t been a full six months yet. My sabbatical isn’t technically over. I know this because the pile of bills still gives me dirty looks every time I pass by them then stand around and whisper about how lazy and unmotivated I am. But I was on set today, watching, giggling, absorbing. I get called in every once in a while to learn different stuff and junk about the new position. It’s a bit different than my usual ‘show up on set and work my guts out’ for four days straight. There’s much more detail to the new job, less drama, which makes me verrrry happy. But after a day on the go I’m looking forward to having the rest of the week off. I’m exhausted! All that thinking and concentrating. Man. working is hard.

Kidding. I kid.

I have two weeks until the contract starts and I’m psyching myself up. Taking the train in this morning was a giggle, so bourgeois, suburban and civilized it made me giddy. Of course I was wearing jeans and a back pack so I didn’t blend in with the suits, and dresses with ankle socks and running shoes. Wait ‘til I do this everyday and I’ll be just like the regulars doing sudoku puzzles and ignoring the great view. My neighbor and I hoofed it to the train and she has the system all figured out right down to which side of the train the doors will open and which staircase to go down. She’s my new hero.

This will be a car-free job most of the time so there will be lots of walking and air conditioned train rides. How civilized. My carbon footprint is shrinking and now I can afford smokes. (Kidding! Don’t smoke! anymore)

On the intellectual front…holy smokes did you see HOUSE? Rarely do I get excited watching regular TV -but that episode was exceptional. The husband, fresh and ripe from his hockey game stumbled in half way through the show, then in a ‘sensitive’ moment ground his coffee beans in the last ten minutes during the most important scene of the show. Surprisingly, I decided to let him live. He’ll understand once he watches the episode and at that critical moment he ruined for me I will sit beside him and do all the things that annoy him like rubbing my feet together rhythmically, flossing, humming/droning in a minor key and chewing gum with my mouth open.

He may experience the episode differently than me but I believe it was an Emmy worthy episode. Next spring we’ll watch the TV award show and the husband will probably ruin the moment for Hugh by making coffee -loudly. That’s ok soon I’ll be a working class hero to the commuting public and I’ll be able to afford a good set of ear phones to shut out the preparation noise… and more!

Two more weeks to dream, scheme and await what remains to be seen.

Cawfee Shop…

Don’t drink the stuff unless it’s caffeine-free, fat-free, lactose-free, coffee taste-free and it’s foamy like a latte, or ‘a whole lot of money for a whole lotta’ nothing’.
Other than that coffee and it’s culture is dead to me.

Maybe that’s a little harsh.

All I know is my house stinks of stale coffee most of the time because the husband grinds his beans (‘why I ‘oughta grind his beans!’) down to two scoopfuls of cawfee grounds, then adds a mug and a half of water then lets the machine cook it down until it smells bad. It seems to have a sensor for bad smells because just when it starts to stink a loud electronic beep sounds four annoyingly long times to announce it’s finished over-cooking the liquid. The longer it sits on the barely heated element the stinkier it gets. The husband rarely remembers to shut it off after he pours out his one cup of sludge leaving the other half a cup to fester for the day. Needless to say the smell stays, hangs onto everything, everywhere.

I’m a tea drinker, generally, normal, black tea dust in a round bag tea drinker -scent-free.

Today for the first time I sat with a friend in a neighborhood coffee shop. It’s part of a chain of coffee shops that will survive beyond global warming and the apocalypse because even fried and dyed Canadians will still want their double double (two creams, two sugars). I had just finished telling this friend that I didn’t know anybody who frequented this coffee shop when the first of several people I know came in, said hi, or waved. I was very surprised first because I don’t consider myself a coffee shop type of person but these people acted like seeing me there was a normal part of their day. “Tea time again?” they could have said, it was that natural. I kept trying to qualify how really rare it is for me to be there but people kept dropping in, chatting with me and briefly catching up. The bigger surprise was how I felt about these neighbors in the community who were thoughtful enough to acknowledge me and how in five years I felt like an accepted part of this friendly community. I felt… proud as I waved and smiled and turned back to my friend and the hot tea in front of me. She laughed and raised an eyebrow like she doubted I wasn’t a regular in my regular hangout having my ‘usual’ regular tea (bag in, with milk). It was a real Canadiana moment for me, one I won’t forget for a while for the aforementioned reasons but also because after sitting inside that place for an hour the pungent smell of stale cawfee has permeated my clothing, skin and hair and I smell ljust like my new hangout, the cawfee shop. SO glad they banned smoking indoors.

“I Think Your Car Is Jealous”

commented the eight year old.

I looked out the front door at my old, bird poop-covered car sitting on the road.

“Yeah, right”, I thought.

Ten minutes ago in one loud rev-of-an-engine the Subaruski got displaced. Ten minutes ago the Cobra came home, coiling it’s love around the husband and eight year old like a good step mother.

Jealous? No, I don’t think my car is jealous of a freshly-conditioned ‘88 Mustang. My car is much too refined (and expensive) to be upstaged by a mere paint job. But tell that to the husband’s boys who will begin sending ‘welcome home’ cards to a car. The last few weeks have been so tense. One moment we thought the car would be ready and prepared to bring home only to be told it was a false alarm. The husband paced and stopped sleeping through the night FILLED with anticipation. The phone rang incessantly over the last three weeks by boys of all ages inquiring like expectant relatives wondering if the baby had arrived. Disappointed, the husband had to explain that these things take time, patience is important and all good things are worth the wait. He was running out of cliches when the phone call finally came.

“It’s ready”, he giggled.

“Great” I replied flatly, looking for my keys.

“Can you drive me? I’m too excited!”, he could have said but didn’t (except in my imagination).

It’s still sporting the illiterate interpretation of a word on it’s license plate, but other than that I barely recognized the ‘stang. A drop of rain slowly fell from the sky and landed on the hood as the husband dove with his hand out too late to intercept it. Obsessive much? I drove home in my car noting in the rear view mirror that the husband had thrown his body on the hood in a defensive measure against the rain -sure to make him look insane. I went to the school to pick up the eight year old. When I arrived the husband was already there.

“Did you get the car?!?!?!?” the eight year old demanded. One look and his question was answered, he immediately went into goofy boy grin mode and ran for the passengers’ side. Racing against himself, the old/new car got to the one parking spot before me, hence my car is now relegated to the road until the garage is finished -in 2010.

A neighbor walked out his front door, stopped dead in his tracks, broke into a wide grin and cheered. This neighbor is 12 years old and yes, as a man in training we witnessed the official arrival of his fully developed car gene. The husband’s voice cracked in pride.

“Yes, it’s ho-ome!” he yelled.

If there is an e-card announcing the new arrival of an old car the husband will find it. You should check your in-box for this card containing all the new-stuff-done-to-the-old-car details like year, colour, replaced parts, etc. because if you’re a guy the details will be imperative. Ask any of the same guys if they remember the details of their first-born’s birth they will draw a blank. I guarantee it.

Jealous? Of a car?

Bouncing Back…

Husband home from Canada’s west end.
Six hour drive through torrential downpour to see Twenty year old for one point five hours.
Separate the eight year old from the Wii system.
Feed the cat.
Clean up after the dog who ate the cat’s food.

Check check check check and check.

So how about the shark-jumping Oprah tribute to TC (or gay dwarf midget according to Lainey)? It’s so good to be able to be home with the mini-van majority to witness Oprah’s descent into TV oblivion. She could hardly pull off the sincerity act -he must have some interesting information about her to force her to ‘emote’ on such an icky level. Who bought that? There was some serious under current on that set. My gag reflex stayed in a heightened state for both the broadcasts.

She (Oprah) also keeps promoting her ‘landmark’ web dog and pony show with yet another German who has combined philosophy with religion (Werner Airhead, anybody?) and come up with a completely original ‘cult’? Oprah drank that cool aid and her confused followers don’t want to be left out so they’re playing along.
What does this guy’s ‘course’ tell you? Be empty-headed, feel nothing. It’s like ‘The Secret’, every motivational cliche ever written compiled into one book. C’mon, it’s a compilation put together by a TV producer (yes, there is some envy to her foresight on my part). But where is our discernment? Are we so desperate we’ll drink the cool-aid and eat the empty white bread in an attempt to fill our souls? You bet. Oprah knows. Her soul is in need of filling. She’s just a TV journalist with a huge ego who has built an empire on her emptiness. Madonna, (the McD’s) of pop star marketing keeps seeking the next new thing too because her soul is empty and the sheep follow.

Was giving TC air time to pretend Scientology is ok her attempt at ‘fair air-play’? Or is she trying to negate the bad press about her own descent into ‘cult’ pseudo-religious zeal. “Hey, that new earth stuff is not as bad as Thetans and Xenu!” Step back and look at that sentence all ye women of mini vans. Open thine eyes to the empty reality being shoved into you every day. Wise up and turn off Oprah.

But watch the nice, gentle lifestyle shows on the cable channels. I still need to work.

What’s That Thing Called?

You know the thing that has a rubber ball that’s attached to an elastic that’s attached to a paddle so that you can bat the ball with the paddle and the ball ricochets back so it can be hit again and again?
What’s that thing called?

Even though ‘sometimes you’re the bat’ (the husband would say I’m a bat all the time), today I feel like the ball.

Good news? The husband is coming home late tonight from the other side of the country.
Bad news? I just had two deliciously long sleeps taking up the whole bed… and that’s over.

I Fought A Noble Fight…

and I have the wounds to prove it.

Twenty-five white cedars arrived at the door yesterday ready for planting.

We, however were not.

There are were seven 40 year old cedar trees that had to be removed first.

The husband had started lopping off branches in anticipation of the Grand Removal, but didn’t get very far.
First thing in the morning I grabbed the big strong clippers and the telescoping ladder and had at them. The old trees weren’t too impressed with me cutting off their tops and arms, the appendages retaliated by slapping me silly. Thank goodness for the cold air that kept me in layers even at my sweatiest. I still managed to get covered in scratches and almost blinded myself several times.

Where was the husband?

Cramming a whole lot of work into a very short time frame.

So he could help remove and plants young trees?

No so he could cram some planting in before his long weekend at the other end of the country.

There I was at the top of the ladder, snipping away with full arm extensions at the snappy, resentful limbs I struggled to stay on top of the rungs as my balance was challenged by the retaliating trees. It would have been a sight for sore eyes -including mine after the swipes they barely recovered from.

By 11AM a line of tree stalks stood in a row pathetically broken awaiting their fate: complete destruction.

“Mwaaaahhhaa!”, I rubbed my hands together maniacally. “Almost there”, I thought. “Now to dig up the shallow roots”.

The husband finally showed up and began digging and hacking at the tree trunks as I cut up and bundled the tree top and arm debris.

An hour passed. The tree stalks continued to guard over the sweating, heaving body of a husband as he continued to dig and dig and dig.

“Frickem. Frazzem. Frackem.” he gasped between throwing shovelfuls of dirt.

Finally the roots gave way and the first tree was broken from it’s 40 year old earthly grip.

“I’ll come back later. I have a deadline.” he said walking away.

“Um” I questioned, demanded, implored and implied squeezing as many syllables out of the word as possible -gesturing to the rest of the condemned stalks.

He walked into the house.

I picked up the shovel and started digging out stalk number two. It didn’t have a very thick stalk or a very deep or wide root system but this tree was not about to move out. Forty-five minutes later I crawled in the front door.

“Wa…ter”, I whispered before collapsing.

Then the truck arrived with the fresh young things. They leaned up against the fence, smoking cigarettes and passing around a mickey sizing up the old stalks. The old stalks shook their heads.

“Kids today”, one said between gritted teeth.

I almost felt disrespectful toward the old standards, but got over myself quickly when I realized the young things would smoke and drink themselves into an early grave if we didn’t properly plant and nourish them with the good stuff before long. The clock ticked.

The husband returned as twilight hit, casting an optimistic glow on the yard.

“I’ll package up the twigs and branches, you dig” is what I meant to say.
“I hate this digging and shoveling and cutting stuff. Hate. It. Can’t believe I have to do all this NOW.”, is what came out.

“Gardening makes me crabby” I told the eight year old who was practicing dicing wood into chips with the clippers. The eight year old moved to the other end of the garden.

The sun began to set as the husband finished digging away at three more trunks, finally up-rooting them.

“Let’s plant now and see how far we get” he said freakishly enthusiastically.

So we did. We planted 11 of 25 before we came to the last thick stalk.

“Wake me up at 7AM”, he said walking to the house.

“Um” I replied, as before.

The next morning I shook the husband awake, “It’s almost seven. You have a date with a tree stump”.

I tried to stand up (an hour later), sore from the slaughter of the previous day. I walked into the kitchen and looked out. The husband was shaking the last stump violently, steam coming out of his ears.

An hour passed, I was reluctant to look out the window again but needed to know who was winning the fight. Happily, the husband had finished planting the rest of the row of cedars, had set up the soaker hose and was heading back to the house.

“Yay!” I yelled out the door.

He smiled triumphantly. I tried to raise my arms in victory but they wouldn’t go up.
Cedars: 25, Me:notsomuch.