H is for Hope

‘I’m suh tared I wish mah daddeh had his thang cut off and I’d nevah bin born.’-

Well, not that tired. But speaking of daddy, growing up, my father worked 3rd shift and my mother 1st, and so much of my pre-6 life was left to my antics. They were often so harmless with so much consequence I still get teary. Once, I put my mother’s contact lenses in my doll whose eyelids opened and shut! so she could see better, only to find my mother with a knife carving my doll’s eyes out. Another time, I planted all the seeds of an apple in the yard to surprise my father with apple trees. He has always mown the lawn in parallel lines, in the same direction- and just wasn’t as happy as I thought he might be- to say the least.
That could be one of the biggest hurts in life. I believe the kids are calling it “bust your bubble” these days. To be so excited and anticipating however high-falootin’ you’ve allowed it to get in your head and then… bust. Ouch.
Are there two kinds of people? Those who mow in straight lines, and those who are happy to have short grass if they mow at all?

I believe gardening has rendered me less vain. Or at least making it a lost cause. I was just hoeing in my garden, fascinated by the fact that I can now pick up grubs without dramatic facial/vocal expression and pondering reincarnation. In the past week, we have removed an opposum and her babies from under the crawl space in our house. And our basement, and the ‘man den’. I am positive beyond reasonable doubt that the gentleman who has set and removed the traps loves possums. I do mean gentleman, he is one of the happiest strangers I have encountered in a long time. He is from New Jersey, and he catches rodents for a living where he takes them to his farm, which is ‘heaven on earth for possums’ in Madison County. Now that could be enlightenment. Or am I really just quite gullable? He caught the mama and two babies yesterday with peanut butter on a marshmellow. Murtew and boyfriends caught one in a wild possum chase in the man den the night before. Murtew caught one all by himself! in the basement yesterday which he proudly reminisced about for an hour before he went to sleep. “I saved his life, the poor little thing, and when I released him across the street behind the neighbor’s backyard, he gave me a thumbs up before he galloped away.” I’m starting to worry that my mother is wearing off on everyone I love. Until this morning, it was a record low mortality rate for possums in N. Asheville. I was making breakfast around 9:30, and for the second morning in a row Mr. Critter showed up at my side door with a big smile on his face. “Didja check the traps?” And like the lowly insensitive rodent-passive Person I am I said, “No, sorry, I was just going to.” for the second day in a row. He looked not impressed. You see, we were directed to check the traps first thing in the morning (which means very different things to different people) and he never said he just be in the neighborhood every morning. When I asked him if there was one in the trap over the weekend, could he just come on Monday, I was told very sternly that is illegal and inhumane. You can imagine the suspicious glance when he found his first dead one this morning, or to him, this early afternoon. I was numb. I thought I felt guilty, but was it forced?
On to grubs… I have thrown many a grub into the street over the past few days. Thoughtlessly, carelessly, not so ironically, my biggest concern was if it stuck to my gloves and somehow landed in my hair instead. But somehow I got into the ‘hoeing zone’, a very thoughtful place achieved by manically digging up grass and dirt until you’ve forgotten why or how or where you are in time and space.
Deep Thought from the Hoe Zone:
What if grubs are the truly enlightened ones? It looks like a meaningless existence, but how much more important is mine? It looks comfortable, all snuggled up in the mud like that. It practices peaceful resistence. It doesn’t even seem to mind being flicked onto the pavement.