Running With the Bulls

I was trudging along about four miles into my race:  I can do this.  I feel great.  Less than nine miles to go.  I did nine the other day.  I’ve done ten a few times.  Oh my God… I’ve never gone more than ten.  The first time I did that, a couple of my toenails fell off.  What will happen after 13?  What the F#*% was I thinking?  How did I ever let her talk me into this?

It was a hauntingly familiar sense of panic.  Many years earlier, I had caved to similar pressure to do a run that left me equally breathless and terrified.

A group of friends had travelled to Pamplona, Spain for the San Fermin festival.  I had already been twice and considered myself a pro.  I knew how to watch the spectacle of opening festivities without getting too drenched with sangria. I knew how to navigate through the cobblestone maze of streets to Caballio Blanco, my favorite bar, located at the highest point of the ancient walled city with spectacular views, good food and an indoor bathroom (key in a city filled with drunks and poorly maintained port-a-potties).  I knew where to get awesome paella and cold sangria.  I had mastered the festival and was pleased to serve as tour guide to our novice friends.

 

My husband was determined to run again.  He had done it twice before and survived, and thus was eager to earn his bull-running trifecta.  I knew better than to run.  As if huge bulls charging down the streets were not dangerous enough, the cobblestones were ice-slick from street sweepers that washed away the wreckage from all-night parties.  The runners were all still half drunk or hung-over or jacked up on testosterone.  The idiotic herd of mostly young men from Australia and America taunted and harassed women who dared encroach on the fraternal ritual made famous by the ultimate man’s-man, Ernest Hemingway.   The Spaniards who ran (most of whom were Basque separatists) detested foreign women who desecrated their centuries-old tradition.  The few women who did run were generally from New Zealand, and they too were half drunk or hung-over or jacked up on testosterone.

While I hate chauvinism, I am not an idiot.  I viewed this event as one of the many things in this world that proves women are the superior gender.  Choosing to remain spectators was evidence of our higher intellect.

I took being a spectator seriously.  I knew precisely how late I could sleep in and still scurry down to find a fence post on which to perch and watch the runners make their final turn into the bullring, barely escaping deadly horns of the bovine monsters.  There are two rows of fences, and rookies sit on the front row, thinking they have prime seats.  They do not realize that front row seats are not only stupid, but also illegal.  There is actually a team of law enforcement dedicated to clearing that row of fences right before the running starts.  Those wanna-be spectators are forced off too late to find another seat.  I knew better and had advised the other chick on this trip about my master plan.  We’d get an extra half-hour to enjoy our coffee after the men left, stake out primo seats, and share in the thrill of the event with little risk of bodily harm.   I would later find that she had another plan.

When we met for breakfast, she announced she was running.  Her boyfriend protested and explained that he was not going to be responsible for her safety.  That only stoked her fire.  She reminded him that she was the athlete, not him, and that he’d be the one holding her back.  She was right, but I agreed that she didn’t quite understand the dynamics of the running.  I tried to explain that every other man out there would gladly toss her tiny body in front of a charging bull if it helped clear a path for their run.   She was not moved.  She said she was going forward and dared me to join her.

That was my chance to do the right thing, claim superior intellect and let little Blondie’s chips (and bones) fall where they may.  But I didn’t.  I couldn’t.  How could I let that former pom-pom girl one-up me?  It was pretty clear that her relationship with my husband’s best friend was long-term, so I knew I might forever have to live with their stories of glory that I would merely have captured on video from the safety of the sidelines.  I could not let that happen.  I accepted her dare.

The minutes that followed were tense to say the least.  We hurried off to the main square where thousands of bodies dressed in all white with red sashes crammed together to wait in quiet panic.  The authorities herded the masses into what amounted to our holding pen, forcing out the stragglers and latecomers who would otherwise overcrowd the already packed route to the bullring.  They also held captive those of us already in the square, forbidding escape for any last-minute bailouts.

So, there we were, smashed shoulder-to-shoulder and front-to-back like teenagers in a moshpit for a sold-out show.  But the frenzy in this pit was fueled by fear not fun.  Fear brings out the ugly side of humanity and my female friend and I experienced the complete opposite of chivalry.   We were pushed and shoved and groped and growled at.  This event showcased the worst traits of the already lesser gender.  We did not belong there.

I took deep breaths and swallowed hard to try and halt the ringing in my ears.  I strategized that I would keep moving, slow and steady, so I would not slip, twist an ankle or fall.  Being trampled by the crowd was a far more likely fate than actually being gored by a bull, so if I could just stay upright, chances were I’d be ok.

I looked over at Blondie.  She seemed equally frightened.  Her furrowed brow and narrowed eyes seemed to apologize for whatever might happen next.

Without warning, the crowd started to move forward.  When the starting-gun fired signaling that the bulls had been released, our slow jog turned into a steady run and then a mad sprint.  I don’t remember much other than a blur of white and red until I reached the final turn where I would normally be safely seated, taking photos.  As I rounded that bend, I regretted sacrificing my superior intellect (and safety) for ignorant pride.

Knowing that was one of the most dangerous spots of the run, I jolted ahead through the massive doors into the ring.  Once inside, I literally ran into one of our friends.  He was white as a ghost from what I later learned was a very close encounter with the bulls.  We stood there for a moment dumb-founded and then dashed toward the stadium seats.  We helped each other climb over the wall to safety and caught our breath.  He was clearly stunned by his near-death experience and I was equally stunned by our collective stupidity.  I scoured the crowd for my husband and our other friends.

When we finally met up, we were all alive, but just barely.  Blondie’s boyfriend had been pushed to the ground mid-way through.  She stayed with him, so they never made it to the ring.  They managed to stand clear while the bulls rushed by.  My husband had made it safely into the ring where he was tossed around a bit by a baby bull that they let run amok to amuse the crowds.  Fortunately, he was amused by it as well and only slightly bruised.  Our still-ghost-white friend had come way too close to the bulls and admitted pushing another man into their path to save himself.  That entire scene was captured in a series of photographs posted for sale at one of the bars, so we have eternal proof of his gallantry.  I never actually came close to a bull, but nonetheless felt I had only narrowly escaped death or massive injury.  Blondie again apologized.

She and I have since become great friends, vacationing together and sharing the trials and tribulations of motherhood, ailing parents and aging bodies.   We don’t talk much about our run with the bulls, but it is one of several terrifying moments in life that we have shared and survived.  My brave and stupid friend was very much on my mind as I attempted a half marathon that I entered on a dare from an equally well-meaning and naive friend who had no idea what she was getting us into either.

As I trotted along the twisting road with a completely different pack of lunatics, thoughts of that run in Pamplona brought a smile to my face.  I took a deep breath, swallowed hard and again vowed to keep moving, slow and steady.  I knew that if I could just stay upright, chances were I’d be ok and survive this crazy run as well.   I did.

I am not a runner.  I have never been a runner.  What I am, is a sucker for dares.  I am that, and just plain stupid.

Night of the Radish Theme:  What the ___ was I thinking?

Floating

I have a pool in my back yard. I love having a pool in my back yard. I feel very fortunate to have it. It is nothing fancy – not one of those new pools with waterfalls, and stone walls and Vegas-style statues. There is no cabana, no outdoor pizza oven, no movie screen. It is just a pool with a splintery deck and acorn stains on the bottom, but I love it.

As a kid, I dreamed about having my own pool. I was a swim team rat who spent every day of every summer at the neighborhood pool. The seat in my bathing suit would wear out and need to be patched from hours spent perched on the concrete edge waiting for adult swim to end. I was a superstar at sharks and minnows and could swim underwater nearly 50 yards without coming up for a breath. I could dunk any boy who dared to challenge me. I had tan lines from goggles and permanently pruned fingers. I loved the pool.

When I was in high school, we didn’t have enough money to have a pool membership, so I would lay out in the back yard on top of a picnic table with a sprinkler to keep me cool. When I got really desperate, I swam in a questionable lake. In college, at the first sign of spring, I would head to the nearby river and lay out on the rocks. My first apartment had a pool that was only slightly larger than some people’s walk-in closets, but I thought it was fabulous.

When my husband dragged me out to the country to see the house he wanted to buy, I hated it. It was an hour away from our condo and all of our friends. I would have to commute more than an hour into the city. The house itself looked like Mike Brady had built it. The shag carpet was gone, but the groovy Brady vibe was still way too strong for my liking. Then, he showed me the pool. Sold!

The first summer, I was working crazy hours at a new job and travelling a lot. The pool was my escape, my therapy. I could lay on a float, turn off my brain and let the rays soak in. Perfection.

The next summer, I was pregnant and I loved the relief of floating in the cool pool. The house is in the middle of nowhere, so I could tan my enormous belly in private and just float. I could also arrange noodles and floats to create the semblance of lying on my stomach – something I obviously could not do while pregnant and have yet to be able to do since. The pool was my savior from a very hot August with an 8-month pregnant belly. Laying on a float with my feet dangling into the water was pure heaven.

Then, I had a baby and the pool transformed overnight into a big cement sinkhole of stress. We immediately put up a new fence to make sure the kid didn’t crawl out of the kitchen door and end up face down in the pool. This is something that could have easily happened to any of our visiting friends in a drunken stupor, but we also let them wrestle on the floats and do cannonballs onto one another. As a parent, everything obviously changed. I had to be constantly on guard when we were near the water. I learned that there was no relaxing at the pool with a baby, or a toddler, or a young child. Even now that my daughter has been on swim team herself, I have to keep guard.

It took awhile, but I think I’ve finally got the hang of pool life as a parent. The nagging stress is gone, and I have grown to love the pool in a new, very different way. It is fun to watch the kids walk on their hands and do cannonballs (at safe distances from one another) and reach the bottom of the deep end to get diving sticks. I love being surrounded by friends and “entertaining” without having to cook anything or even clean the house. So long as the pool vacuum and chemicals do their job, I am party-ready.

But, the days of sitting poolside with a book are gone. If I do manage to get onto a float, it isn’t long before someone is splashing me or crawling on to my lap or trying to capsize me. I only have one child, who is finally old enough to not want to hang on me all the time, but her friends view any grownup in the pool as their caregiver and/or splash target. And, since most of their parents have a younger child who demands most of their attention, I am more often than not, the lifeguard, diving board contest judge, snack-fetcher and bathroom assistant. Still, I love it.

Last summer, I had the rare chance to enjoy my pool alone. My daughter didn’t want to swim. Friends were all off elsewhere. It was a beautiful, clear and sunny day. I reasoned that just because my daughter didn’t want to swim didn’t mean I should miss the opportunity. I had been on Supermom-duty all week, including a sleepover the night before. We had played Sorry and paraded stuffed animals. I had successfully wrestled three kids into bed before 10:30, and, in the morning, I played Mystery Date with the five-year-old while the older kids played Life. We baked chocolate chip cookies from scratch, fished for minnows in the creek and did other wholesome things. I had earned an hour or so in the pool, right?

So, I got my book and I went out. I read for a bit but quickly decided I should enjoy the water. I got on a float, looked up at the sky and enjoyed the feel of the hot sun on my skin and the cool water on my feet. I watched the water bead up on my legs, noticing how my new cocoa butter was an excellent moisturizer. I was pleased with myself for trying the stuff straight rather than settling for lotion with cocoa butter added. This stuff was much better straight up. I thought I should treat myself to a pedicure because my feet looked awful, but then I felt guilty for thinking of spending $30 on my ugly feet. Stop looking at your feet.

The trees looked beautiful, lush and green. They must be 80 or 100 feet tall, really tall. A few months earlier, we had a large one taken down for fear it would fall on our house and kill us all. There were ants living in it. I saw them. I have seen what ants can do to a tree that looks completely healthy and then just snaps in half in a good storm. The tree guys didn’t want to take it down. Looked like a good tree to them. I knew better. I was the one living under its threatening canopy of doom. My husband finally got sick of me worrying and we found another tree guy to take it down. The neighbor called the day they took it down to say she was sad to see us kill such a nice tree. We have hundreds of nice trees. Literally hundreds. We live in an oak forest. This tree had lived a full life, and now it was its time to go. As I lay there floating, I remembered the neighbor’s call and again felt awful for killing this wonderful old creature (the tree, not the neighbor), but then I pictured the stump. The hollowed out center was evidence of the ants’ destruction and the tree’s killing capacity. I got off my float to look at it again to ease my guilt. Stop thinking about the trees. Enjoy cocoa butter beads, feel the sun, relax.

I got back on the float. I deserved some time to relax, right? Remember, the cookie-baking and the minnow-fishing? I told myself to let myself enjoy the pool for an hour.

What’s an hour? At my old billing rate, an hour was some serious cash. I should really reach out to some of my old work colleagues for more freelance work. I do so much volunteer work though — too much volunteer work, really. Why do I work for free? Well, the work I do now is for my kid’s school, so I should feel good about that. I am helping kids. I am helping over-privileged kids at a private school.

More guilt.

Relax, feel the water. Splash it on to yourself. I should go pee.

I don’t pee in pools. And, I certainly don’t pee in my own pool. I’m pretty sure the little kids who get blamed for peeing in pools are not the ones who actually do pee in pools. They don’t learn that they can get away with it until later. My daughter’s friends never go into the house to pee anymore. Their little brothers and sisters still do. Does that mean the big kids are all peeing in here? What about the parents? Did I add enough chlorine yesterday?

I don’t pee because I get caught for everything, always have. As a kid, I totally believed there was a chemical that changed color when someone peed. I’m pretty sure that if they didn’t have it then, they do now. They showed it in a movie, so someone has to be at least working on it as an invention. I don’t want to be the one to set that off and be left swimming in a cloud of pee-triggered green dye! I also don’t like the idea of peeing through my bathing suit. At the ocean, the dark water provides the privacy needed to pull your bathing suit aside. Everyone pees in the ocean, right? It smelled like pee yesterday. I wonder who that was. I know I added more chlorine after I smelled that. Relax.

I looked at my watch. It had only been 20 minutes. Really, you can’t relax for 20-minutes? Try harder. I got out and read a chapter in my book. I decided to not read any grown-up books that summer. They are so depressing – stories of loss, pain, cruelty of mankind. I pledged to leave that all behind for a summer to read Harry Potter and other things my daughter was reading. I should know what she is reading, right? Some of it is fun, but it isn’t gripping, so I got back into the pool and tried swimming.

The bathing suits I wear now are designed more to hide a pudgy figure than they are for swimming. Attempting to swim butterfly was both exhausting and high risk for suit loss. A year earlier, after a couple of glasses of wine, I tried doing a flip off the diving board for the first time in my life. I was a pool rat as a kid, but flips were way too scary. I was terrified of hitting my head on the board. That kind of fear goes away quickly with the right amount of alcohol. It was awesome doing that first flip just a few months shy of turning forty. I have done it now and again since (without wine) and it is still fun, but this day, I had no audience, so there would be no flips. Just float.

My favorite pool float is kind of like a chair. You sit almost upright with your rear in a mesh hammock surrounded by a tube. There is a backrest and cup holder. I didn’t have a drink. A drink would have been nice. I drink too much.

The sun felt great. I pulled up my top to expose my huge belly. Not as huge as nine years earlier, but still not meant to see the light of day. That is one of the joys of living in the country — no witnesses. The sun felt great.

I should do this more often. I should exercise more often. Tomorrow is my day to start up again. I have the perfect new exercise DVD that gives maximum results. There is no reason not to do it. I feel better when I am working out. Well, not while I am actually working out, but in general, in those spurts of life when I am committed to some routine, I generally feel better. Then why do I stop? I am a slack sack of dough. What am I doing floating here in the pool? I should at least swim some laps. The pool isn’t really big enough for laps. Just start the DVD tomorrow. Now, you should relax.

Forty minutes had passed. Wow, almost an hour of quiet floating with no interruptions. Enjoy it. I still had to pee. I knew that if I went inside, I would run into my husband or child and one of them would need something. Or, I would see the dishes still in the sink from the cookie-baking and take ten minutes to deal with them. Doing dishes would remind me of all the other things I said I would do over the summer and hadn’t started. I need to clean the garage. I need to purge a bunch of toys and go through the basket of school papers and finish the scrapbook from 2005. I love my new Mac because I can make a photo album in 30 minutes. Gone are the days of printing and pasting and all of that, but I still have 2005 to finish – the last year before my delayed switch to digital. Wait for a rainy day. Float. I love my new Mac. I should update my Facebook status to say “Jan is enjoying a rare solitary float.” That would require going inside. Don’t spoil it.

I tried to lay on my stomach. It hurt. I have some back problem that I should really see a doctor about. — that and some pain in my heel. It is probably just old age, or bone spurs or cancer. It is one of those. The Internet is a very helpful diagnostic tool. I should go to a doctor. Right now, I should really get out to pee. Ick – look at those toes! Forget the doctor. Get a pedicure. That would really be relaxing.

Will Jog For Food

I’m starving.  Famished.  Ravenous.  My calves are tight, my quads are tender and my hips are locked up or something.  I feel great?! I ran 10 miles yesterday.  Well, “ran” is probably not the right word, but I “did” – shuffled, limped, walked and sometimes ran — 10 miles, which is still a huge accomplishment for me.   I didn’t think I could do it, and I probably wasn’t ready to do it, but I did it.

I am training for a half marathon and this was an impromptu test to see if, 6-weeks out, I could even get close.   It was a follow-up to a little test last weekend when I was in an 8K race.  That is about 5 miles for normal people.  I am not sure why we run in the metric system.  And, if we do, then why do we still talk about marathons in terms of miles (26.2 or 13.1 in my case)? Runners are hard to understand.  I am still not a runner.

The 8 K was a low-key way to get a feel for what a race day is like.  I am really not interested in racing, so much as finishing, but I was warned that in the group setting, your adrenaline kicks in and you push yourself to go faster.  That’s not exactly how it worked for me.   I wasn’t running for a better time so much as running for a better self image.

Once my friends pulled out in front of me, I had to decide where I wanted to be.  I was fine finishing after my running buddy because I’ve known all along that she could go faster.  I had to keep it respectable, so I tried to keep an eye on her white cap as long as I could.  I was fine finishing behind my non-running friend because she had just spent 3 months doing that P90X thing that is crazy intense and she is in really great shape.   I never lost sight of her swingy ponytail that served as my metronome – swish, step, swish, step, swish, step.

But, I was not fine finishing behind the woman who looked like a new contestant on The Biggest Loser.  I wished her well, but I was not going to let her beat me.  I passed her and never allowed her to regain the lead.  Nor was I fine finishing behind the chick with the perfect butt that I was certain she didn’t have to work for.  She wore a silly green frog hat, which may have endeared her to some, but only served to piss me off.  She and I were immediate rivals, even if she didn’t know it.

We were both running in intervals – alternating running with short walks.  Our intervals were not synched, but similar enough so that when I was walking, she’d pass me and when she was walking, I’d pass her and her stupid hat and her perky no-panty-lines-ass.

When I was in front of her, I contemplated why she was so skinny if she can’t run any faster than me.  If I can keep up with her, why don’t I have that butt?  She can keep the hat.

When I was behind her, I noticed that she wasn’t really running, so much as jogging.  Nobody calls it that anymore, but that is what she and I were doing – we were jogging.  We might as well have been in piped shorts, striped knee socks and terry cloth sweatbands, because we were joggers.   I jogged across the finish line just ahead of her and immediately grabbed a sugar cookie from the snack table, confident I had earned that small reward.

When I went out yesterday, I had her in mind as I set out to see how far I could go in two hours.  I knew from the 8K race that I could do 5 miles in one hour, but I also knew that didn’t mean I could do 10 in two, especially without the competitive rush of a race.  I was right.  It took me two hours and 15 minutes, but I stuck with it and did 10 – chasing that frog hat with every pathetic jog step.

I felt great — physically and mentally.  I had burned nearly 1,000 calories and was immediately thinking about what I wanted to eat.  Oddly, nothing sounded good. I  didn’t want to eat.  I wasn’t hungry.  This was really strange for me.  About an hour later, I forced down a piece of peanut butter toast and realized why runners are skinny.  Maybe when you run enough, your body not only burns calories, it also gets too tired to consume more?  Brilliant!

But, I am not a runner.  At dinner that night with friends, my trying-to-be-a-jogger body was starved for energy and I indulged:  bacon appetizer, sirloin entree, 2 glasses of wine and carrot cake dessert.   As I sit here today, drained and sore and thinking about all the delicious foods I want to eat to refuel my depleted body, I’m picturing Miss Perky Butt, knowing exactly why I don’t have one.

Rubber Boots

Rubber boots are all the rage right now.  I love rubber boots.  They remind me of jumping in puddles and trekking through creeks and other messy fun.  I don’t have the pencil thin calves required to pull off the Fashionista look, but as soon as I realized they were in, I was desperate to get a pair.

We were planning a family trip to London over spring break and I knew rubber boots would be put to good use there.  We were cashing in years of miles earned from past business travel and strategic credit card use, so splurging on boots didn’t seem too frivolous, even if they did cost twice as much as my favorite leather boots.

I was afraid the popular Hunter brand would not accommodate my ample calves, so I got a pair of Bogs that were on sale and could double as barn boots over the long term.  They were not as cool as the Hunters, but they were shiny and fun and I immediately loved them.

I test-drove them in New York one rainy weekend in February.  My friends thought I was a doofus until they realized everyone in New York had them.  I was actually stylish and practical all at once — a far cry from the doofus who had sprained her foot racing across a crosswalk in platform flip-flops on an earlier trip.   That sprain hurt a lot more than the blisters caused by skinny jeans bunching-up and rubbing my vacuum-packed ankles.

While I could get the boots on over my jeans (no minor accomplishment given my stature) they were snug and pinched a bit.  So, I wore them every opportunity I could, hoping to stretch them out so they would be completely comfortable in London.   I didn’t want to get cankle blisters there!  I wore them around the house and out on days I shouldn’t have, facing the harsh judgment of people who rightly thought big-ass rubber boots should be reserved for rainy days.  After a few weeks, they were ready and I was sure the effort was worth it.

As the big trip approached, I checked the weather online daily.  Everything showed rain or at least drizzle for the entire month of March.  I planned my travel wardrobe entirely around the boots.  I even got my daughter a cheap pair, picturing her adorably slogging around London like Christopher Robin or Paddington Bear.

But a few days before we were set to leave, the forecast changed dramatically and we were scheduled to get unseasonably warm and sunny weather – a straight six days of sunshine!  Fantastic, right!?  Yeah, fantastic, except I didn’t need the damn boots.  Not only didn’t I need them, I couldn’t really justify packing the clunky things and hauling them halfway around the world.  I had to completely rework my wardrobe.  So much for planning ahead.  So much for London Fashionista and Paddington Bear.

We had a great trip.  It was sunny and in the mid-60s every day – completely unheard of.  My fair-weather shoes were not nearly as hip as big rubber boots, but I was thankful for the beautiful weather and the liberty it gave us to walk everywhere and fully enjoy the city.  When I saw folks wearing their wellies in the sun, I judged them harshly and relished my good luck and the sunshine.

The day after we got home, my luck ran out and the boots were put to use.  Turns out rubber boots come in handy when your septic line clogs and leaves puddles of grey water and muck in your basement.  As I’ve already said, these boots are cute and practical.

I may not be a Fashionista, but my instincts were spot on when I knew I just had to have those big rubber boots.

Spring Forward

First Sign of Spring!

Mother Nature is not an instant gratification kind of gal.  I am pretty sure she enjoys doing jigsaw puzzles.  She is content to find an edge and slowly, slowly work inward to gradually reveal a small section of a tile roof on a house that she’ll eventually discover sits on a hillside, above a seascape.  My shoulders tense up just thinking about the slow torture of doing a jigsaw puzzle.  Mother Nature has patience.  I do not.  This is just one reason I am not cut out to be a gardener.

But something happens to me when we “spring forward”.  Resetting the clocks also restarts my engine, even if it does sputter for a day or two as I adjust to that lost hour of sleep.  Extra daylight, warmer weather and the chirpy sound of spring peepers shake me out of my winter funk and lure me outside to see if anything survived the harsh winter.

I start with what I have discovered is a very effective gardening technique:  removing the dead leaves from my garden bed.  I do not enjoy this task, but it is the only thing I know how to do and it delivers the instant results I crave.

If I’m not too late in the season, I can push back the brown crust to reveal intense blue blooms of dwarf iris.  I found them just in time this year.  They don’t last long, maybe a week.  But they send me a signal that I need to get to work.   With my help, tulip bulbs that have been struggling to break through the weight of damp moldy leaves can be set free to grow and bloom.  It is amazing how fast they grow once those leaves are gone!

The shoots of green spur my curiosity and my desire to do more, so I start to prune back the dead perennials that should have been cut or tied back and braided and composted the prior fall.  My neglect is evident.  Still, the slightest effort is rewarded when removing a dead layer reveals new growth.

I Love Bluebells...

Underneath the tangled brown stalks, I find little purple cabbage leaves that are actually the start of bluebells I know will blanket this space in April.   Newly exposed pinkish roots hint that come May, I’ll have big fat, fluffy peonies brightening my days and filling my patio with their sweet smell.  Hairy greenish clumps hidden under brittle leaves are actually the start of phlox that will grow to be two feet tall when its dark green leaves burst into purple blossoms in late June.

Before I know it, I am knee deep in Mother Nature’s jigsaw puzzle.  My shoulders are tense from scurrying to find the pieces she scattered all around, but I know will she reward what little patience I have.