The Beginning of the End of the World as I've Seen It

25 March 2020

Over the last two months the rate that the world has been changing has accelerated at an every increasing speed.  It's not that the earth has altered physically, but the state of the human beings who live thereupon has turned upside down.  A virus.  One of the tiniest viable particles known, the Corona Virus has halted all air, sea, and land travel.  Non-essential businesses have been closed for more than a week.  Grocery stores and the trucks that supply them, gas stations and semis full of fuel to refresh the local supplies--car repair and drug stores--doctors' offices . . . and, of course, hospitals are all still active.  The city couldn't function without garbage collection and the mail and package deliverers. 

With the population all suppose to be confined to their homes--but we do have a yard and a pool.

More tomorrow.  

I'd always imagined that wars between nations, earthquakes, tsunami, hurricanes, fires and tornadoes would be the primary means of man's end.  This peacefully quiet absence of individuals is more like a scene from one of the apocalypse science fiction stories I've read over the years.  

YouTube videos have been following the CoVid-19 challenges by dredging up facts about past epidemics, promises to post videos daily rather than weekly, videos from people on lock down, and the obvious 24/7 news reports keeping everyone up-to-date on what is happening in the world because of the virus' appearance in the public domain.

Double Pinwheel Tree Blossom

This was taken this morning.  My photo.

Double Pinwheel blossom Apocynaceae Tabernaemontana divaricata, Crepe Jasmine or Pinwheel Flower.

When we first moved into our Florida home, there were six Tavernaemontana divaricata trees growing just east of the front door.  With rich, lush dark green leaves, they were wonderful just by themselves.  In the summer, however, they continually blossomed with small, white, 5-petaled flowers.  Unfortunately they were already overgrown, too big for the space they had been planted in.  Greedy for sun, they pushed their branches up and outward, looking for all the world like trees bent by constant, gail-force winds.  

After a time, I had help digging them up, roots intact, and transferring them to a place in the back yard where they had lots of room to grow.  

Palm Beach Gardens, FL.  My photo.

One little sapling escaped our notice.  Sprouted from a seed, it gradually increased in size and beauty.  Once stunted by the primary cluster of trees, it is now alone, but very happily growing, at the corner of our house and the garage.  I keep it pruned down low--about 5 to 6 feet tall.  Usually it bears the plain flowers, like the one in the photo below.

From a site on-line: ZDNet.com.  The photo is credited to Image by rjackb via Flickr.  This post was originally published on Smartplanet.com 

This morning I found a single flower that surprised and delighted me.  I took a photo of it--the one at the top of this entry:  a double layered flower with two sets of petals set on top of one another.  It is still beautiful--nine hours after I picked it.  It doesn't wilt like the gardenia blossoms I pick and bring inside.  

I've never seen a flower like this on this particular tree before.  

I suppose it's a vote for genetic mistakes as a good thing.

"Drive-By" Gardening; Silk Floss Tree

Garden "wellies."  My art.

Usually when I am gardening I dress in an old, stained pair of overalls.  They are blue and white pinstripe and have splotches of white paint across the front pockets.  Even though I bought a size "small" they are much too big for me and years ago I shortened the legs so that their bottom edges didn't drag the ground.  I also sewed the shoulder straps in place because they kept working their way loose as I worked.  They have great pockets that I empty of soil and crumpled leaves at the end of the day.  The knees are reinforced with no chance that I would ever have to patch holes.  

My overalls.  My photo.

I wear an old shirt--usually a hand-me-down from Nathan that shrunk in the dryer.  I keep a few of them just for gardening and so I can start with a fresh tee shirt for several days in a row without stopping to do laundry.  I also bought myself some black "wellies" from Walmart more than a decade ago that I step into and out of at the door as I come and go from inside to outside--it keeps the dirt that I drag into the house to a livable minimum.  

Before going out I smear my face with sunscreen and spray my arms with mosquito repellant.  I pull on a floppy canvas hat to complete the look.

Thus prepared, I pull on a pair of gardening gloves and load a big bucket with pruners, clippers and a small tree limb saw.  I also usually drag a big, empty garbage container with me so I can collect anything I pull up or cut off as it is pulled or cut.  

In a word--when I work in the yard--I look like I am working in the yard.

Three days ago Lauren came looking for me outside.  Caleb toddled beside her, holding her hand and picking his feet up a little higher than usual (I think the stiff Florida grass tickles his feet).  She found me in the front yard--pruning the inner branches of a hibiscus tree.  I was dressed in jeans and one of my "good" tee shirts.  My feet were bare--though I did have gloves on.  

Lauren approached me and stopped, picking up Caleb so he wouldn't continue to pull on her hand.  

"Hi, mom.  I couldn't find you inside.  You doing some drive-by gardening?"  

I looked back at her with a questioning look--you know one eyebrow up and one eyebrow down.

"Well . . . you're not dressed like usual . . . and you didn't tell anyone you'd be out gardening."

**********************

Drive-by gardening.  Doing something without planning before hand.  Getting caught in the middle of working on something I didn't really mean to be doing.  With yard work, that can be a bad thing for me--shoulder, hands, wrists, knees have all been repaired frequently in the last few years.  

Yesterday we celebrated Lauren's birthday and a (hated) family tradition (that I insist on--another story) is the giving of a "wish" to the person whose present you are about to open.  Lauren wished that Brent would find some really cool fossils the next time he went to the Peace River to search for them.  I was next.  

After rolling her eyes and thinking hard, Lauren said, "I wish that you won't have to have more surgery on anything this year."  

Unfortunately a very appropriate wish; already this year I had to have a severed tendon in my right wrist repaired. 

************************

NEW SUBJECT

************************

Silk Floss Trees

Bombacaceae Chorisa speciosa

Ever since we moved here eleven years ago I have alternately felt pity and awe for the Silk Floss tree.  

Through the late fall, winter and spring, the trees look like something from a Tim Burton movie.   

In late fall and winter the crepe murtles are flush with bright purple, red and pink fluttered flowers.  In spring the gardenia trees and tiny jasmine flowers fill the air with a delicious fragrance.  My wild roses produce hundreds of blooms all year long.  Hibiscus bushes and trees boast huge flowers in yellow, flaming orange, bright crimson, and blood red.

In contrast, the Silk Floss tree stands barren almost all year long.  When I first saw the row of trees along Donald Ross Avenue standing naked and crook-branched, I wondered out loud why they didn't just pull them down and put in something that would be able to thrive along a busy street.

January 2016.  Line of Silk Floss trees along Donald Ross Avenue, east of I-95, Jupiter, FL.  My photo.

Usually, sprawling, bare branches are hung with sparse pods--luminous dark olive.  These turn into white, cottony lumps, tight as a clenched fist.  

Seed pods--with green cover and without. I like the image of the smooth green pod against the thorns on the branches.  My photo.

These gradually expand into four fluffing fingers hanging down until a storm wind carries them off--leaving the trees completely naked.

The last stage before the tree's seeds are liberated by a strong wind.  My photo.

As if in response to this dearth of foliage, the trunk and branches have sprouted thousands of thorns.  If they have no leaves, at least they have something with which to protect themselves.  The only way to believe them is to see them.

Spiny thorns on trunk. My photo.

During the summer the tree is carpeted with gobs of fluffy pink clouds of petals--from afar it looks like something from a My Little Pony movie.  During this time of year, it always seem odd to me that there aren't rainbows sprouting from each tree.  

Royal Poinciana, Fern-Like Leaves, Fiery Flowers . . . and Other Florida Flora.

One of the first flowers that fascinated me when I began to photograph plants in Florida.

I've been collecting photographs of plants, trees, bushes and flowers for the last ten years.  Brent gave me, first, a Sony camera with a simple zoom lens--after that, a Nikon D300s with (over the years) three different lenses.  Then, last year, I got a Nikon P600 zoom camera--essentially a zoom lens that can take photographs of the craters of the moon.

My intention (only sporatically carried through) has been to document all of the plants in our yard.  This is a fragment of my dream to compile an identification collection of photos and plant pressings of all the plants I find in our area.

One of the challenges in all of this is the seasonal changes--blooms come and go, even leaves on some plants dry up and fall off for a time each year.  There are flowers that grow from underground root systems or bulbs--they send up sprouts, grow, wither and die.

This is one of the young Royal Poinciana trees along Donald Ross, just east of I-95.

I have one entry for today, though:  Royal Poinciana.  It is a tree that spreads its branches over a huge circumference.  Even though it grows as high as a telephone pole, the branches of an older, mature tree, brush against the ground when the wind blows. The Palm Beach State College, PGA campus, has some gorgeous trees.  During the height of summer, standing under one of the trees' canopy, I am hidden from the sight of those walking on the sidewalks--just a half dozen yards away.  

Here we see the height compared to a light pole: young Royal Poinciana tree, family Fabaceae, Caesalpinioideae, Delonix regia.

From a great distance, the trees are easy to spot--blankets of flowers covering a wide dome.

Seed pods hang down low after the flowers have gone.

The blooms cluster at the ends of branches.  A relative of the pea, the leaves are described as "fern-like."

I took a close-up of a single flower, set at the base of a branch, to show the texture of the trees' bark.

One of the best things about living in Florida is that it is green all year long.  

In Iowa, I loved the fact that I could toss just about any seed on the ground and it would grow--especially "salad" plants: lettuce, tomatoes (those I started from small nursery stock), sweet peppers, carrots, radishes, spinach. 

The same miracle happened in Kansas City, Missouri.  There I was also able to get apple trees to survive--though we didn't live there long enough to see a harvest from them.  We left a terraced flower garden built around a waterfall.   An enclosed garden provided "salad" veggies as will as gooseberries, raspberries, and blackberries.  We were known as the "sunflower house" because of the few giant sunflowers that sprouted in odd places around the house.

Now we live in Florida--Palm Beach.  I've tried peach trees--died.  Fig trees--no figs.  Roses--mildewed.  Tomatoes--burnt by the "partial sun."  Lauren and her family are living with us for awhile and she has been able to get SURPRISE!!! WOW!!! BLACKBERRIES.  I have a starfruit tree that bears delicious fruit twice a year--as does our Barbados cherry tree.  My best success so far (aside from the wild roses I got from the Palm Beach State College nursery) has been a single mulberry bush that gives luscious, though few, berries every year.  I have three pomegranate bushes that have done nothing except not die yet--and a sap apple that also has not died yet--and two coconut palms that I think have not decided if they are going to die yet or not.

I don't have a Royal Poinciana in my yard; I just get to be in a place that is constantly green and growing and filled with plants that I can take photographs of.

It is a place that I like very much.   

Shells Are What's Left When Something Dies

As we were watching an old Netflix movie on TV,  my 26 yearly son Nate walked into the room and said, "I remember when you just popped in a tape or a DVD and then you sat back and WATCHED it!"

If it were "remember when", then I wouldn't be writing this; wouldn't be able to send letters and photos all around the earth in an instant--unless it's a video longer than 10 seconds long, in which case I would have to download it onto YouTube and email the link to everyone.

The photo is from my visit to Maryland during December 2015.  Old, empty phone stations.  Useless unless you count the memories it brings to those of us old enough to remember them when there were phones in them.

Late in the day photo.  

After So Long

Caleb, Robert, Lauren, Charlie. Palm Beach Gardens, FL.  2016.  Caleb is almost 1 and Charlie almost 4.

I have been away from writing for so long that it now feels strange to sit with my laptop and think thoughts that my fingers type out.  I feel as if I have just been reunited with a dear, old friend--but don't quite what to say.

I have been taking photographs--hundreds of them--plants, family, sky, patterns in the fabric that is my life.  Since Lauren, Rob, Caleb and Charlie have moved in with us--I have been obsessed with cleaning--NOT cleaning--purging my house.  Things that have been safely layered in boxes are now being inconsiderately ripped from their dim places and either been repackaged, scanned and abandoned, sent "en mass" to various relatives, or given away.  With two families now using the space that one family occupied for over 10 years--space was needed--stuff had to go.

It is interesting as I sit here now to think of the stuff that I have found and then let set adrift.  I had not thought of myself as a hoarder--but I have display cabinets (3) filled with useless, but very pretty, things.  The majority are Lladro figures.  Much space is occupied by Brent's bottle collection--odd and charming glass shapes--the most precious of which is the first one that he found.  He came across it on a beach years ago.  It's principle virtue is that (besides being old) he found it himself.  I have purchased bottles for him, through the years, as presents for birthdays and Christmases--but he most values the few that he himself came across. He considers them "his" finds.

I guess that is an attitude that I also have regarding the art pieces that decorate our home.  Almost all are done by close family members.  There is one that was done by a cousin of my mother's--a huge green painting of a path through one of her local, forested areas.  I do not know the place, or the artist, but I do feel a fondness for it because it hung in our home for many years.  When mom died 19 years ago, and dad divested himself of all their household belongings, I "got to have" this painting--which, as it turns out, neither mom or dad particularly cared for.  Funny the things that we keep just because we can't bring ourselves to throw them away.  

The wedding dress that mom made for me more than (2016 - 1982 = 34) 34 years ago still hangs at the back of my closet.  It has gone through numerous dry cleanings and survived a flood (that shrank it so that I can no longer wear it).  It is no longer white--but I cannot bring myself to throw it out.  I have vague plans to make a few throw pillows from bits of it, but (since it hangs invisible in my house) plans continue to remain incorporeal.   Someday I will make the pillows and send one to each of my children--along with a photo of me, wearing the dress, and a short story about how she made it for me on my wedding day.

This will be a short essay.  It is Sunday afternoon and Brent is sleeping beside me.  I think I will join him in a nap.

See you soon.

The Cat's in the Cupboard and Can't See Me

Valley hiding from everyone in the hall closet.

I was walking toward my bedroom last week.  Everyone was home.  Caleb was picking up his toys and smacking them against the tile floor.  The percussive "Crack!  Crack!  CRACK!" made it hard to hear the TV, which was turned up to be heard over Caleb's racket, vied for most irritating noise ringing throughout the house.  Charlie was barking at someone he thought was at the door.  Nathan was playing a video game in another room and the "Thud-thud-thud-thud-RATATATATAT" added to the din.  

I would add that the dishwasher was augmented the level of noise in the house--but we have a dishwasher that, when it is going, I can't even hear if I'm standing right next to it.  The clothes washer and dryer are in the garage--so I couldn't hear them either.  It was late afternoon--so no one was mowing the lawn or edging outside.  

Even so, the house pulsed with sound and the energy of five adults and one 10 month old grandson.

As I passed the closet in the hallway leading to my bedroom, I noticed that the door was half open--and a quiet "mee-u" caught my attention.  With everything going on in the house, Valley had sought refuge in a place I had never seen her before.  She looked at me, "mee-u".  I reached in and stroked her head.  In a whole house of bedrooms, a cat tower, hidden window ledges with an outside view--she had retreated to the relative safety of a place where Charlie wouldn't bark at her, Caleb couldn't grab at her, and no one would try to pick her up.

I had to get a picture.

*********

It is 10:35pm and the entire house is quiet.  Brent, Nathan, La, Roberto, Caleb, Charlie, and both the cats are still and sleeping.  It is now that I like best to sit and write.  

Brent used to ask me why I stayed up so late after everyone had gone to bed.  Classes, kids, errands, appointments, chores all began early in the morning.  When the kids were younger I used to go to visit friends who had been sick or just had a baby--when they opened the door they stared at me and then exclaimed "Come in!  Come sit down!  You look so tired . . . are you OK?"

Being awake in the late night hours, though, gave me the assurance that everyone was safe.  They were all under our roof and sleeping.  Everyone was here--but no one needed me to do anything for them.

When Meg and La were very small--during the years when Brent was in law school--they played happily with each other as I cleaned the kitchen and mopped the bathroom floor.  I could make beds, take dirty clothes down stairs and bring clean clothes back up.  I could put away books, file papers, answer the phone--no problem.  As soon as I sat down, however, I was fair game.  

I would sit at the kitchen table to type a paper for class or start to grade papers my students had written--and "Whoosh!!" they appeared--on my lap.  I would sit on the couch to read a book for class or sit at the piano to play a piece of music and "TaaDaa!" I had two small bodies squirming on my knees.  I couldn't even go the bathroom without the two of them needing me to hold them on my lap and read them a book.  

When they were asleep, however, I could read textbooks, prepare lesson plans, write out checks to pay the bills, write a letter, type a paper--even sit at the table to eat something--and neither Meg nor La would materialize out of thin air between me and what I had started to do.

Of course, now that Meg and La are both married with their own children, my lap is more often invaded by one of our cats--both of whom are easily dislodged with a determined poke of my finger.  I can sit and watch TV all day or scan bills and old photographs into computer files that will float out in space for the rest of eternity--if the eternities have iCloud.  I can even lay down and take a nap in the middle of the day, undisturbed until it is time for dinner and Nathan comes in, wanting to know what's planned for that night.  

The odd thing about my life now is that even with all the time I have, I have more money than time.  It is much easier to pay someone to come and clean the kitchen or mop the bathroom floor.  Nathan will do the laundry if I will sort the dark from the light colours, and put the whites in a separate pile.  And there are no stairs to carry anything up or down.  

At the State Fair on Wednesday, we waundered into a room where the prize winning quilts, crochet wall hangings, knitted baby sweaters, and needlepoint projects were all displayed.  The county quilting club was set up with someone demonstrating how to quilt, information about their organization, and a beautiful quilt that was being raffled to help raise money to support the charity work that they did.  It was a stunning wall display quilt with squares featuring birds and wildlife from the area.  It was intricately stitched and edged.  Since raffles are a kind of gamble (albeit a benign kind), I asked if I could just donate without receiving a ticket.  The response was "I don't know how we handle that sort of thing."  I guess it wasn't a common request.  In the end they graciously accepted my $10.  As they thanked me, I mentioned that I was in a place that made it much easier to give monetary support than to actually spend time working for worthy, charitable projects.  It seems like such a cowardly way to feel that I am "serving my neighbor."  

I look back on the things I did when Meg, La and Nate were in school--and I am amazed.  I had energy and strength and patience and TIME . . . that, somehow, have disappeared.  One friend, also a grandmother, said that for her "the days dragged, but the years flew."  I am still puzzled by that.  I remember times when I had to sit and wait for a doctor appointment or stand in line waiting for my turn to take a driving test--and wishing that I could save up that time and use it later when I was doing something that I loved to do.  Especially during college, during the freezing winters, walking to class--I really wanted to take that time and save it for something else.

Time doesn't save, though, does it?  Ideas, goals--art, garden, school plans--all these can wait for later.  Standing in line at the grocery store, sitting and waiting for a meeting to begin--these things demand that time be taken THEN.

Very often, when things I don't really want to do dictate how I spend my day, I feel like Valley--and would creep off to an obscure place to wait out the commotion if I could.  Later coming out--as Valley does at night--when it is still and my time is my own.