Elaine Smith Writes

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Moving back

It helps to know where things are.

Y’all know I recently moved to Florida.  (Well, okay, it’s been two years—but that’s recent when considered as a percentage of years I’ve been alive.)

What some of you may not know is that I was born here.  And the area to which I moved is the same area I spent many a summer when I was much, much younger than I am now.

And therein lies this Monday’s Miracle.

Because Saturday night, the MotH* got a fish hook stuck in his thumb.  We’ll set aside all the nonsense about how I didn’t respond quickly enough when he told me he wanted me to come out to the garage—because, really, who would think just telling me what the problem was when I asked would take any more time than yelling about how I should just do what he said?  We’ll set that aside.  Mitigating circumstances, and all that.  A fish hook in the thumb can be pretty painful. So he gets a pass on that—although I would like to point out, for future reference, that I respond better in an emergency if it is clear to me that something is an emergency and what the exact nature of it is.

And let’s consider, when we are adding up my crisis management skills, that I did manage to cut the lure, thereby releasing him from the fish, at least, without fainting at the sight of blood.  That’s something I’ve never been sure I was immune to since the one and only time I’ve ever fainted was during a first aid lecture.  (Mitigating circumstances there, as well.  Long story. Maybe some other post.)

And let’s consider that I got him to the emergency room pretty quickly.

That’s the miracle.  Not that I got him there, exactly, but rather that I know where an emergency room is around here.  It’s not like I scope out all urgent care facilities whenever I go anywhere.  (I know some people do that.  I’ve never been sure if they are taking that scouting motto of “Be Prepared” —or hypochondria—to a whole new level.)

I don’t think it has ever occurred to me, in anything other than a vague ‘it might be good to know this’ kind of way, to acquire that kind of data.  It’s possible I always had a vague idea that an emergency needing an emergency room would also need an ambulance, and I feel 99% certain that the ambulance driver will know where to go.

So, this could have been a bad thing.  I might have had to call that ambulance.

But I spent a lot of time here intermittently many years ago.  I know where a hospital is!  I know the way well enough to find it in the dark!  (And I hate to drive in the dark.)  So this is a miracle.

And the thumb is fine.

* MotH = Man of the House

 

What a dump!*

 Where does your trash go?

I’m not entirely sure where the weekly garbage pickup ends up, but out here in the boonies, we make regular trips to the dump.

Anything outside of ordinary household refuse or those things designated as recyclable, must be disposed of by the homeowner.  Either we have to make special arrangements with the disposal company, or we make a trip to the dump.  Consequently, I have a more intimate knowledge of the amount of trash people generate than those who just lug things to the basement for a city super to handle.

It’s amazing—and somewhat horrifying.  I live in Florida, remember.  Where a restaurant is known as Hilltop throughout many management and actual name changes because it sits on what is essentially a bump in the road.  Flat.  The land is flat, flat, flat.

Out at the dump, though, there is a definite—and big—hill.

Landfill.

Every time I go there I think of future archaeologists excavating this giant mound to find out what the people of the twentieth and twenty-first century were like.  And I feel it’s good we have written words.  Although possibly, we might want to get some stone tablets out and do a little better than paper and ink and electrons to preserve our history.

All that aside, though, the dump is a strikingly well-organized place.  You drive in right onto a scale where your whole car— contents, passengers and all—is weighed, and the checker-in gives you a card with a number on it.  Then you make the rounds:  hazardous waste over here, construction debris there.  Metal, plastic, glass, ordinary garbage—all have their own areas.  You empty your vehicle and drive out over another scale.  You  hand in your numbered card, and the checker-out cheerfully announces the poundage you’ve left behind.  Each family is allowed 500 pounds per week.

500 pounds!  Per week!

We’re going to be buried in trash if we can’t figure out better ways to recycle it.

* One of the iconic lines used by Bette Davis impersonators–from Beyond the Forest, based on the novel by Stuart Engstrand, screenplay by Lenore J. Coffee.

Fern and Dina

Sometimes I like what I don’t like.

So, I was in an antique store yesterday.

In addition to antiques, there were a variety of art works on display and for sale.  My eye was caught by a colorful square painting of two sunglassed, bikini-clad women sitting in beach chairs under a bright tropical sky.

I’m not much of a art connoisseur.  In fact, I’m one of those terrible people artists hate because I could say—although I don’t, because I know they  hate it—that I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.

This painting was not something I particularly liked.  The draftsmanship seemed clumsy, the colors too garish, there were almost no shadows, no perspective.  To be honest, I’m only certain the figures were women because of the title and because the work was so unsubtle as to make me feel that the depiction of long hair could safely be assumed to be an indication of femaleness.

So…in my admittedly uneducated and probably philistine opinion, and only my opinion, I’d have to say it was not a good picture.  I won’t say it was the worst picture I have ever seen. . .but. . .it wasn’t the best.

It did, however, make me laugh out loud and consider, for about half a second, purchasing it.

Because in addition to the beach babes and the bright blue sky, there was something else painted into the picture.  Its title.  In a sort of orangey-red.

Fern and Dina

You probably don’t know why that appealed to me so much.  That’s because you’re missing one critical piece of information.  When I told you I was in an antique store yesterday, I neglected to tell you where.

A little Saturday suggestion here.  Always get the full story.

The reason Fern and Dina, in all their acrylic glory—.  I think they were painted in acrylics.  In fact, I’m almost certain.  The reason Fern and Dina appealed to me so much is I was standing in an antique store.

In Fernandina.

The essence of comedy is the unexpected.

I think I’m going to write “Fern and Dina” up in big letters and post it over my desk to remind me to turn things upside down and inside out and try to look at them through other eyes.

Holy Moly!

Where has my mind gone?

It’s Wondering Wednesday, and I’m wondering how—after 118 days in a row and 119 blog posts—I got to 10:15 pm last night without remembering that I had to do a post for today!

Kind of frightening.

And I even had a topic all picked out.

It’s going to have to wait, though, because it’s a much more important “wonder” to wonder what has actually happened to my mind.

Here’s what I hope it is.  I hope it’s just that I haven’t spent the time needed to triage all the projects I have going.  Consequently, everything is of equal importance and urgency.  So, I jump around from one thing to another in a less than organized manner.  It’s a kind of situational ADD.

The answer, of course, is to stop rushing around doing a little bit of this and a little bit of that.  The answer is to slow down, figure out what’s really important–as opposed to what is urgent—and focus on those things.

It’s counter-intuitive.  It feels like I really have to try to make progress on as many fronts as possible.  The truth is the only way to make progress is to concentrate both attention and time in a concerted effort.  It’s not that I can’t accomplish more than one thing in a day.  It’s just that I can’t accomplish more than one thing at a time.

Serial tasking, not multi-tasking.

For that to work, however, I have to have some systems in place.  I have to triage and prioritize.  I have to have lists.  I have to actually look at the lists.

Because all that getting to 10 pm without having done a blog post means, really, is that my systems failed me.  Clearly, this is one of those tasks that needs to have a reminder set, with a loud and recurring alarm.

Because the answer to the question “Where has my mind gone?” is that it hasn’t gone anywhere.  It’s standing in the middle of chaos, bouncing from one thing to another.

I just need to take a deep breath and go back to the basics.

I hope.

It’s the little things

Small miracles.

It’s been a weekend of little things.

First, I got the house straightened up.  The way is now clear for some major cleaning.

Then, I did a lot of running around shopping for things that have been on my list for a while.  You know—the ‘not urgent but I’ll need these someday’ things:  the ant killer, the extra bottle of window cleaner, etc.

And I stocked up on stuff to fill the new freezer—which is also little, but big enough for us.  Now, maybe, the ice cream won’t fall out every time we open the door of the one on the fridge.

I pruned the camphor tree—which qualifies as a series of small miracles.  A) I did a pretty good job.  It’s neat and symmetrical.  B) Pruning gives me a chance to smell the camphor, which is a nice old-fashioned scent and one I like. C) Pruning the top foot off the tree opened up an unbroken line of sight to the most beautiful flowering tree in my neighbors’ yard.  Gorgeous yellow flowers.  I don’t know what they are, but I like looking at them.

But the biggest small miracle was just a tiny moment watching the lizard on the chrysanthemum.

I bought a chrysanthemum plant when I was shopping.  Just a small one.  Yellow.  Because it was cheerful looking.  I haven’t had a chance to transfer it to a more permanent location, but I set the small pot on top of the dirt in an enormous, but plant-free, pot on the patio.  It’s just outside the window, and therein lies the tale.

In the middle of the various other things I was doing today, I remembered I had this new chrysanthemum, and I stepped over to the window for a moment of appreciation.  Sitting right on top of the densely packed yellow blossoms, with a royal air of contentment, was a little brown lizard.

I think that it was a brown anole—although I confess to a certain amount of willful ignorance where reptiles are concerned.

What I do know is that I have never seen something so satisfied with its perch as this little lizard appeared to be.

And, really, why not?

Wouldn’t you like to be sitting on a bed of flowers, in the sunshine, overlooking the water right now?  I consider it more than a small miracle that both the lizard and I had that moment to enjoy that view.

 

No fish in the driveway

Nuthin’

I got nuthin’.

No internal inspiration.  No gifts of the gods dropping from the sky like that fish yesterday.

This is what happens sometimes.  You want to write, and nothing comes.

Writers Block.

That big, scary phrase that, in itself, stops all further forward motion and provides the excuse for it.

I can’t write.  I have Writer’s Block.

The thing is. . .there’s no such thing.  I mean, it’s nothing endemic to writers.  It’s a plain old combination of laziness and fear.  Sometimes, with exhaustion and/or addictions added to the mix.  (I don’t necessarily mean the more popular forms of substance abuse when I say “addiction.”  You can be addicted to television—or cupcakes.)

If you aren’t writing—well, we’ll say if I’m not writing—no need to make sweeping generalizations about the rest of you—but, if I’m not writing, it’s a good bet it’s because I don’t feel like it.

I’m too tired, too distracted by other things, too frightened I won’t have a good idea or be able to do justice to the ones I have.

The answer to all of that is:

So what?

So what if I wake up at 5 am after staying up until 2?  So what if I’m worried about the mortgage, the contract, the fight with my spouse or my mother, or the funny noise the car is making?

So what?

There’s a line from a song in A Chorus Line:

God, I’m a dancer.  A dancer dances.

It’s kind of the same thing.

A writer writes.

So, be a Nike commercial.  Just do it.  Or, as Julia Cameron says, show up at the page.

Are you a writer? A writer writes.

And, in case you hadn’t noticed, today, once again, I get to say I’m a writer.  The triumph of “So what?” over “I don’t feel like it.”

This may be the most important blog post I’ve ever written.

So far.

 

A fish in the driveway

Not just out of water.

In the driveway.

I guess I’ve been more startled by some things—a snake unexpectedly slithering across my path, a sudden crack of thunder, the smoke alarm going off—although that’s never really all that unexpected when we’re cooking.

But, honestly. . . a fish in the driveway?

Yesterday, I was having a productive day.  Straightened up around the house, a little light dusting.  Did my full workout.  Gave the MotH a haircut.  Finished one of the unending loads of laundry.  Made myself a master shopping list for a serious grocery run and a Home Depot shopping spree.  (We live at Home Depot since we moved.)  Took care of some emails and some paperwork, and was just about to take a short break when I decided to go get the mail.

I wandered down the driveway, taking my time in appreciating how much the lawn has improved and enjoying the fine sharp line of my edging work, and marveling—as always—at how brazen the squirrels are around here.

When, suddenly!  A horde of flies, and I glanced down to see a fish.

A very dead fish.

Lying in my driveway.

Now, it is true that I live near water.  Fish have been pulled out of it.  Inevitably, however, they are on the end of a fishing line.  They may flap around briefly on the dock, but they go one of three places:  back in the creek, into the crab trap, or into the kitchen.  Never, ever do they end up 50 or 60 yards away in the middle of my driveway.

It was startling.

Kind of like how the Egyptians must have felt when those frogs started falling from the sky.*  (I know, I know—they came up out of the Nile and didn’t drop from the sky at all.  When I was a kid, however, I thought they dropped from the sky, and I still like the story better that way. )

Actually, that’s what I assumed happened with the fish.

Some kind of aerial battle—osprey vs. eagle—and nobody winning.

Although, I’m not sure why one of the combatants wouldn’t have come down to retrieve the prey.  Possibly, they don’t like to lower themselves into civilization like that.

I suppose an alternative theory might be one of the neighborhood black cats—but they are usually hunting the aforementioned squirrels or various songbirds when they come by—not dragging dinner and then leaving it behind.

However it happened, it was startling.  And kind of icky.

And, of course, the MotH was nowhere to be found

I could have left it there until he returned, but it was already somewhat fragrant.  And there were those flies.

So, with great presence of mind and consummate bravery, I got the shovel out of the garage.  There was a one-woman funeral procession and burial at sea.

Any minute now my heart rate will be returning to normal.

A fish.

In the driveway.

What could it possibly mean?

Other than a little help from the gods when I was stuck for a blog post.

Thank you, gods.

I guess.

 

 

* Exodus 7:25 – 8:11

Virtual rearrangment

…of furniture, that is.

My Monday Miracle this week was the rearrangement of my office furniture.  And the Friday Find I promised you in that post is the online tool I used to help me figure out a new floor plan without succumbing to the cliché of countless cartoons.

You know the ones I mean—where the long-suffering husband manhandles the sofa from place to place only to end up restoring it to its original position while the wife stands by and points?

As I mentioned in the previous post, sliders saved the MotH’s* back—because I moved all the furniture myself—and Floorplanner saved my sanity—because I only moved it once.

Floorplanner is an online tool that allows you to create a floorplan and furnish it with all kinds of included pieces of furniture.  Then you can view it in 2D or 3D and rearrange everything over and over without developing a hernia.

It’s easy to install, because you don’t install it.  You work with it online, in your browser.

It’s fairly easy to use.  All the furniture pieces can be resized to your dimensions.  You just drag-and-drop them around your room and decide whether you like the new arrangement.

And it’s free.

Previously, I had purchased HGTV’s Home & Landscape Platinum Suite 2.0, and I tried to use it.  Ultimately, I took advantage of their money-back guarantee and returned it.  It was just too complicated for what I needed to do (and I could never figure out how to remove the grass I accidentally got growing in the living room).

Floorplanner let’s me draw a room and stick furniture in it.  Then it lets me move the furniture around.

That’s all I wanted.  That’s all I needed.

The big, expensive software packages are probably worth the time and money if you are an interior designer or a landscape contractor.  I’m sure it’s nice to be able to show clients how the space will look all 3D and painted and lit.

But I just want to make sure there’s room to walk between the desk and the closet before I actually move the desk.

Floorplanner.  Yay!

A rose by any other name*

…might not get the right plant food.

Today, I am very thankful for my friend Carole who has an uncanny ability (and, probably, some robust internet sources) to identify every plant I put in front of her—virtually speaking.

When we bought Casa Lagarto, we became the proud owners of a lot of flora and foliage.  Previously, I could recognize a pine tree, a cactus, a daffodil and a rose. Also, hyacinth and hydrangeas.  And not much else.

But here’s the value of networking—and a reminder that your network isn’t just your business acquaintances.

The first thing that happened is that my mom’s garden club held a meeting at my house.  After lunch by the water and their business meeting, they walked me around my yard and identified 90% of my botanical holdings.

There were a few things they didn’t recognize, and that’s where Carole came in.  She has unhesitatingly identified the Fringe Tree, the Mexican Hydrangea and the Spider Lily.  Also, the Canna Lily.

From pictures.

It’s an amazing talent!

And now everything in the garden is not only lovely, it has a name.

So, what’s in a name?

Sure, names don’t alter the essential nature of the thing being named.  On the other hand, if you’ve got a broken arm, you really don’t want your doctor calling it a brain tumor.  Trouble will ensue.

A plant without a name renders my essential botanical cluelessness even more deadly to said plant than it might otherwise be.  What generally saves them is my laissez faire attitude toward gardening.  Non-interference results in more weeds than are strictly necessary, but it supports the “First, do no harm” doctrine that is at the heart of my horticultural practice.

With a name, I can look things up.  I can research the best time of year for pruning, whether they need extra water (not too much of a problem in this year of the unending deluges), etc.  In addition, cause of death can be narrowed to something other than “I did something wrong.”  The carnation died from lack of water, the vinca died from too much water, but the begonia has survived because I recognized it needed water!

I don’t have a green thumb.  But I do have good and knowledgeable friends, and any plants that perish have only me to blame.

Thanks, Carole!

* Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Sc. 2 (Flapdoodle!)

No easy way

…to measure your carbon footprint

I’m wondering about this today, because we are considering buying a freezer.

The freezer that came with our refrigerator is too small.  We bought a side-by-side.  I don’t think I would do that again.  We didn’t have a big freezer in New York but it seemed to hold more.  And it was much easier to locate and extract things.  (The sound of the freezer door opening here is usually accompanied by thumps, crashes and muttered curses.  That’s if it’s the MotH that opened the door.  If it’s me, there’s usually an “Ow!” in there somewhere, frozen sausages being somewhat bruising to bare feet.)

We can probably clear out space in the laundry room for a small freezer.  Research indicates the cost won’t blow the budget.  It would be nice to be able to stock up on frozen pizzas.  (Currently, they have to be cut up and re-wrapped, and there are only so many pizza quarters that will fit.  [They aren’t any softer on bare feet, either.])  It would be nice to be able to take more advantage of the BOGO* offers at the local Winn-Dixie.

And I understand the risk involved in having a freezer full of food during hurricane season.

But. . .

What I am wondering is this.  Does it take more energy to run a freezer year-round or to make more trips to the grocery store?  Wouldn’t it be great if cars—and electric meters—came with more specific indicators?

Instead of that vague analog dial, why can’t a car have a digital display of fuel used down to tenths of a gallon?  You’re not going to tell me the technology isn’t available.

And shouldn’t my electric meter have something more useful than five dials whose pointers all spin different directions?  We ought to be able to see how much electricity we’ve used during any given billing cycle and what it’s costing us—not only in terms of dollars about to be billed but actual carbon footprint.

Awareness and attention.  The first steps to a balanced budget and energy conservation.

How hard can it be?

I wonder.


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