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Other People’s Flowers

I love them.

I do not have a green thumb. It’s not even faintly chartreuse.

Plants, typically, do not do well around me. (Except for a brief and inexplicable period in my thirties when I maintained seven house plants for a period of about four years. And then they went the way of all plants and died on me.)

Now, this is one of those things that is a mixed blessing.

When you are hopeless at growing things, you get to save a fair amount of money and muscle fatigue by not even attempting it. However, I do think I might look into a small herb garden—and maybe some radishes.

And I would like to have more flowers than I do.

The canna lilies that were here when we bought the house—they seem fairly indestructible. Likewise, there’s a vinca that’s held on rather well.

The redbud tree and the fringe tree both bloom yearly.

I have some crepe myrtles, too, that were here at the start and a couple that I’ve planted that may have made it through the winter.

On the other hand, my carnations croaked, the begonia may be frostbitten, the poinsettias bit the dust along with a couple of other flowering things I tried to grow.

But, the neighbors!

The neighbors have orange blossoms and azaleas and dogwoods and tulip trees and this hedge that’s full of big pink flowers. There are geraniums across the creek and rain trees in the surrounding developments and a bottle brush tree along the road I take for my (with any luck) daily walk.

And here’s the thing about other people’s flowers.

You can look at them and smell them and enjoy them just as much as if they were in your own yard.

So, today, I am thankful for other people’s flowers.

Fleas

At the market, that is

I love flea markets.

Now, let’s be clear. I mean real flea markets, the garage sales on steroids, not what sometimes passes for a flea market these days, the ones where they are mostly selling the fake fleas. You know what I mean. Tube socks in their plastic packaging, rows and rows of nail polish and clippers, sheet sets and maybe even tires.

Those are dollar stores without a roof.

A real flea market may have some of that, but it will be hard to find among the booths selling used books and mismatched crockery, three matching bar stools, assorted Christmas ornaments and a music box with the castle’s flag pole broken off.

A real flea market is a place of adventure. Of possibility. A place where you can save money and acquire stuff you didn’t even know you needed. A place where creative ideas abound. (Hey! I could put those wheels on that box and make a cart. Or, a little glue and a little paint, turn that shutter upside down and hang it on the wall, and I could have a nifty thing to hold mail. Or, there are a couple of chairs for $10 bucks apiece—they’ll work until I find what I really want.) A place to get what you need to try something you aren’t sure will work. A $5 phone isn’t much to risk if you want to see if that phone jack on the dock is good for anything but frightening the herons. (When one of them answers the phone, I’ll be frightened.)

One of the places where Florida has it all over New York is in flea markets. As far as I could tell, in NYC, what passes for a flea market is the outdoor dollar store concept. Even a street fair tended to have more seconds and stuff that fell off the back of a truck than anything else. But down here in my new location, we’ve got flea markets!

Always good for a Saturday outing, full of potential and possibility and projects to be.

What could be better?

Is it the humidity?

Or is it the heat?

I’m not talking about that old thing that everybody says—especially in Florida—about how it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.

I’m talking about this inability I’ve encountered to find a comfortable temperature inside my house. Generally speaking, it is either too hot or too cold for much of the year.

The reason for this is the mild climate, I think. In the high noon of summer, the air conditioner runs. While there is some variation from room to room, the house generally maintains a comfortable coolness. In the day or two of actual winter, the temperature is a little less even throughout the house, but it’s not bad.

But when it’s 70 outside, it’s not hot enough for the A/C and it’s not cold enough for the heat. And what happens then is that it can be too cold inside to wear short sleeves and way too hot for long. In the space of minutes, I go from shivering to turning on fans.

I’d think I was having hot flashes, except that it truly only happens during these interim months. And it doesn’t happen when I travel to other, less humid, places.

So, I’m wondering if it’s the humidity in some way. I do know that the dampness in the air tends to make cold feel colder and heat feel hotter. I just don’t totally understand how it can make both happen within minutes.

Frankly, I’d like an explanation for that.

Well, who are we kidding? What I’d really like is a solution to it. I’m fairly certain, however, that there won’t be one—at least, not one I can afford, anyway—so I would make do with an explanation. Just so I can stop wondering if I’ve suddenly contracted malaria. In the meantime, I keep throw blankets handy for temperature control.

I found something!

Better De-leafing

Earlier this month, I was wondering if there was some special technique to leaf blowing.

Well!

I haven’t found a special technique for blowing of the leaves per se, but I have discovered a slightly better way to pick them up. Familiar to all leaf blowing peoples of the known world, probably, but new to me. (What can I say? I’m slow.)

Use a tarp.

See? Once I say it, it seems self-evident, doesn’t it?

Just use the leaf blower to move all the leaves onto the tarp. Then, pick the tarp up (carefully), and dump the leaves into the bag or bin or whatever.

Now, I will tell you that this method does have some limitations. If your tarp is not big enough, you will, basically, just blow the leaves over it. If you don’t do something to weigh down the edges…goodbye tarp. If your tarp is too big, dumping the leaves becomes an interesting exercise in wrestling with the tarp.

To be honest, I have thus far found it to be easier to proceed thusly: Use the leaf blower to create piles of leaves. Then, put the tarp beside the pile, and use the rake to move the leaves onto the tarp. Then, proceed to wrestle with the tarp as necessary.

The thing about this new (to me) discovery is that picking up the leaves has gone from being the hardest part of the whole business to being one of the easiest. Not counting those times when I just decide to mow the leaves, instead. Or those future times—probably never happening but occasionally dreamed of—in which all the trees have been removed by my most amazing tree guy.

One of the reasons this is not happening is that my most amazing tree guy is reasonable but not cheap.

Plus, I have neighbors with trees, and the wind is no respecter of property lines.

Plus, I like trees.

I just would prefer it if they would drop their leaves all at one time—or during the same season, at least—instead of from October to March. Six months of leaves is too many.

And don’t get me started about the sweet gum balls!

The redbuds are blooming

Spring is on its way!

Take just a moment here, and go to Google. Enter the word “redbud” in the search box. Click on Images.

Isn’t that a beautiful page of pictures?

My one redbud tree is pinkish. It’s pretty much the first thing to flower in the spring. There’s not usually any warning. Leaves are falling everywhere, trees are bare, the herons and the coots are here for the winter, and one day, you look up, and the redbud tree is in bloom.

The forsythia, which always used to herald spring in my more northern existence lags far behind the redbud here. This year, my redbud is more lavishly decked out than in the past two years. I think it might be because we finished taking down a tree behind it that the previous owners had partially removed. Its trunk had been lowered to about six feet, but it was sprouting a new top. It was too close to the fence—and, hence, the neighbors’ house—which is the main reason for its removal. But it also helped to hem in the poor redbud which is hanging out under an oak and a sweetgum as well. Taking out that one tree trunk seems to have given it a little bit more light.

I’m not sure how it will fare long term.

There’s a magnolia planted next to it. Right next to it.

I suspect both trees would prefer to have a little more room, but I’ve nowhere to move one of them, and I hate to lose either, so I’m letting nature take its course.

So far, the magnolia has shown no signs of flowering, but maybe it will take up the challenge from the redbud and see if it can outdo its neighbor. Meanwhile, spring has sent its advance guard, and the redbud is blooming!

Things are not always what they seem

Or, maybe they are.

I’m sitting out on the dock today working on some blog posts in advance. It’s truly a beautiful day—although, by the time you read this, it may not be. But, right now, it’s about 76° and sunny, the very best kind of Florida winter day.

So, I’m thankful for the weather. And I’m thankful for the wireless technology that allows me to sit out here and work. I do need, perhaps, to get a more comfortable deck chair—because this one is designed more for lounging than typing—but why quibble? I mean, there are a lot of people with no deck chair at all.

Another thing for which I am thankful is the mystery and the drama of the coots. As I sat here, a solitary coot went paddling by me. Now, you must understand, a solitary coot is an unusual thing. They travel in packs.

At first, I thought, “Aha! Straggler! You better hurry up.” This coot had a lean and hungry look, different than the usual cheerful rotundity of coots, that made me think, perhaps, he was always a straggler, always just booking along to catch up to the rest.

But, then, I saw the rest of the flock way down the creek far behind this one.

I thought, “Aha! Scout! You’re the advance guard.”

But, then, I saw the rest of the flock turn and go the other way.

So, now, I don’t know.

Has there been a falling out among the coots? Has my fast feathered friend, perhaps, departed in high dudgeon over some slight, real or imagined? Is the rest of the flock too conservative to dare the shining waters beyond the bridge, or is the lone swimmer fearful of some alligator the rest have decided to brave?

It’s a mystery.

Quick! Call CNN! We need an investigative journalist. There are stories to be told at the creek.

Next time

I’m gonna be prepared!

We’ve seen how well my bravery held up to an escaping lizard. I mean, it was a good try, a valiant effort, but it was mostly luck. For the lizard, too, because who know what would have happened if I hadn’t been able to open the window and give him an escape route.

So, the question is what happens next time?

There will almost certainly be a next time. Eternal vigilance is not possible. I mean, a person has to go in and out of the door.

I have considered the problem from all sides.

It seems to me there are four possible solutions:

I could just ignore any lizards that are out-of-bounds.
This seems rather hard on the lizards. I don’t think they will fare well in this environment. It would be like those cargo bays on Star Trek when the environmental controls go wonky. And I would have to dispose of the bodies which is nearly as bad as rescuing the living.
I could get a cat.
This, too, would be hard on the lizards. Plus, cats like to bring you presents, and I don’t really want a lizard, dead or alive. Then, too, I have known cats that won’t touch a lizard—so then I’d have a lizard and a cat.
I could get better at catching lizards.
This solution has possibilities. Next time I am outdoors with my gardening gloves on, I will practice. There’s a lizard that lives inside the spigot by the garage. He tends to tumble into the watering can whenever I fill it. Usually, I just dump him out, but maybe a water-logged lizard is slower. Then, too, capture attempts outside are free of the fear that I’ll chase the lizard behind a bookshelf only to have it leap onto me at some later point from off The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. (I now have 7 copies of that, by the way, for a project I’m starting. That’s another story.)
I could get a lizard trap.
A lizard trap! Is there such a thing? Quick, call Google-fingers! (Okay, you can have Superman and Mighty Mouse. Personally, I get much more use out of Google.)

Here is what I’ve found today.

It is possible to catch lizards on glue traps. It is also possible to release them from the glue trap using vegetable oil. On the other hand, do you want to deal with a lizard that’s been oiled and glued? I googled again.

There doesn’t seem to be a big market for lizard traps. Not a lot of different models. Hardly any, in fact. Actually…none.

But…there is a website with some lizard-catching advice, and it suggests…head smack!…a shoe box. Why didn’t I think of that?

You can bet, next time, I’ll not only know where my gardening gloves are but also the location of the lizard loafers.

Leapin’ Lizards

At long last.

The conclusion to the great saurian saga of 2013.

If you recall, I was relating my adventures in pursuit of a solution to an enormous lizard problem. Enormity is a relative concept—relative, basically, to your level of cowardice in the face of non-humanoid beings. Mine, historically, has been high, but I am striving to overcome that, and I welcomed this opportunity for growth. (Welcome may be too strong a word. I…accepted…it.)

When we left our story, the lizard was on the windowsill, the gardening gloves were in the drawer and Elaine was in an unusual state of courage and determination.

Which lasted about two minutes—or the total amount of time it took for me to get the gloves, put them on, and reach for the lizard.

The lizard, being a lizard, was not one to sit like patience on a monument* (Flapdoodle!) while rescue was effected. At the first touch of a gloved finger, it leapt!

Leapin’ Lizards!

Every girl’s dream start to a day.

Now, bear in mind, when I say “leapt” that you must consider the source. I have a level of…discomfort…with rodents and reptiles (and spiders) that tends to lend connotations of warp speed to their movements and Japanese horror movie magic to their size as I relate my adventures.

This poor little thing “leapt” all of two inches. There was nowhere, after all, to go. On the one side, the window. On another, the window frame. On the other two sides, my advancing hand.

A little more ruthless effort, and I’d have had him.

Incipient bravery only takes you so far, however.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to grab. (Who wants to end up with a tail in her hand and half an escaped lizard wandering the halls?)

We retreated to our respective corners. Or, the lizard did, anyway, skulking in the corner of the sill, window, and wall. I took a step back to catch my breath.

The prospect was dim.

Failure loomed.

Was I going to have to…oh, the shame…wake up the MotH?*

Just when that horrible prospect seemed inevitable, victory was snatched from the jaws of defeat!

The lizard was sitting on the window sill!

Window sill.

Window.

Window!

I am thankful this Thursday that my brain woke up to the realization that windows are designed to be opened, that these particular windows do not have screens, that I moved slowly enough not to spook the lizard into further flight, and that the lizard was brave enough to wait for me to open the window and smart enough to get the hell out while the going was good.

So, okay.

It wasn’t my finest moment.

On the other hand, the MotH slept on, the house is lizard-less, and the lizard roams free in its natural habitat.

Things could be worse.

Next time…well, I’ve found some things we’ll discuss tomorrow to deal with the next time.

* Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act II, sc 4

** MotH=Man of the House

Conundrums

Why? When? And, more importantly—how?

I know you are all madly curious to discover the outcome to the lizard adventure (see my two previous posts if you aren’t up to speed), but we need to pause for just a moment and ask ourselves some important questions.

How did the lizard get into the house?

This is a piece of critical information that is sadly lacking. You see, when I lived in a NYC apartment and we had a mouse, it was possible to find a hole in the wall behind the stove where the gas pipe came into the apartment. The proper procedure when dealing with uninvited guests is:

Get over the shock.
Remove the interloper.
Figure out the point of entry.
Close it.

This worked very well with the mouse. You do have to remember that I was not the person who accomplished the removal. At that stage of my personal growth, it was a triumph not to remove myself. Nonetheless, the mouse was gone, and we were reasonably certain it wasn’t coming back.

So, how did the lizard get into the house? Lesser questions—more a matter of curiosity than critical pieces of information—are why did the lizard get into the house and when?

I can’t say for sure, but I assume the when was not too long before I discovered it. Lizards, unlike spiders, aren’t known for skulking in the shadows and lying in wait. In addition, there’s not that much for a lizard to eat in this house (I hope and pray). Any lizard that has been here for any length of time would not need catching and releasing. It would need sweeping up.

The why is immaterial except insofar as it has an impact on future preventive measures. I suppose he thought it was a good idea at the time. (I’ve gotten myself into some predicaments in the same way.)

The how, though. The how is a puzzlement.

Definitely something that deserves consideration. Unfortunately, I think I’ll be wondering about that for a while. I suspect, since I don’t have a ravening horde of invading lizards—and I do have a lot of lizards outside—that it’s not some breach in the home’s defenses like a hole in a wall.

I think it’s more a crime of opportunism. The lizard saw an open door and took a chance.

I’m going with that, anyway, in the absence of any other theories.

And tomorrow, I will tell you what happened in the great lizard wrangling of 2013.

Organization is the key

to lizard extraction

In yesterday’s episode, our heroine (me) made the momentous decision to remove an interloping lizard single-handedly.

For those who are not troubled by reptiles and/or other small scurrying creatures, this may not seem a sea-change* (Flapdoodle!) But for someone who once (long ago in a galaxy far, far away) spent a terror-filled night tortured by a cricket and, somewhat later in life, nearly fell off the rocking chair she had leapt onto at the sudden appearance of a hamster in an apartment previously hamster-less, it is, indeed, the miracle which warranted beginning the story yesterday as part of our series of Monday Miracles.

In a state of mingled what-am-I-thinking and how-brave-am-I as I contemplated reptile removal, I considered the options.

The MotH** just picks them up. As, in fact, had my grandmother and my mother, in the past, so that’s pretty much all that occurred to me, and clearly, that was what I was going to have to do.

Now, visited by sudden bravery I might be, but I am also a person with a certain amount of self-awareness. I knew it was extremely unlikely that this resolve would be carried through bare-handed.

And this is where today’s Tuesday Tip comes into play.

Always know where your gardening gloves are!

I have several pairs of work gloves and gardening gloves, and none of them are kept in the garage (me having a healthy—some might say ‘elevated’—sense of self-preservation and no wish to encounter a brown recluse spider being reclusive alongside my index finger). In fact, my best gardening gloves—the ones with the rubber fingers allowing for more manual dexterity than the leather work gloves—are in a drawer next to the side door.

Now, this is the important part. Not only are they supposed to be in the drawer next to the side door, they actually are there.

Look out, lizard.

Will Elaine find her gardening gloves? Will the lizard wait until she does? Will this story have a happy ending? And how did the lizard get on the window sill, anyway?

For the answer to these and other questions, tune in tomorrow to Wondering Wednesday.

* Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act I, sc 5 (Ariel’s song)

Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change,
into something rich and strange,
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell,
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.”

** MotH=Man of the House

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Category Archives: Casa Lagarto

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