Pat Bertram's Blog, page 19

Flowering Despite the Heat

This is a hard time for me to be doing any gardening. Although my lawn is a football field blend of grasses with Kentucky bluegrass, tall fescue, and red fescue — a mixture that is supposed to do well in heat and cold, sun and shade — it’s struggling. Even worse, the Bermuda grass that once covered the yard is poking its way through the thick grass and without some sort of intervention, will eventually take over. For now, I’m just pulling it up when I can. Later in the fall, when the temperature cools down, I’ll dig it up and reseed those areas, as well as any area that didn’t make it through the summer.

I can see why I never particularly wanted a lawn. It’s rather a pernickety plant that can break one’s heart. Still, I enjoy it more than it frustrates me, so I will keep it as nice as possible for as long as possible. I think the second year will be easier (the sod was laid mid-October, so it hasn’t been here a full year yet) because I will be able to see patterns of growth and stagnation, as well as what sort of weeds and weed grass to look out for.

Despite my frustration, struggling plants, and problems with weather, there are still many things to enjoy in the yard. Right now, it’s mostly daylilies and echinacea, but a sunflower or two are also flowering.

I suppose, despite the heat, I’d have to say I’m flowering, too, since I’m being more sociable than I have been the past couple of years. In fact, I haven’t had a completely “alone” day for a while, and don’t expect another one for the foreseeable future.

Luckily, yard and garden care are projects for the very early morning, so I’m available to accept invitations the rest of the time, and I’m less inclined to say “no” than I have been. (I suppose I should be still saying “no,” considering the rise of yet another virulent strain of The Bob, but like almost everyone else, I’ve gradually strayed from taking stringent precautions.)

If I sound a bit down, that’s understandable. It’s a full moon tonight, and I don’t sleep well around this time anymore, so I tend to let my less-than-ebullient nature get the better of me.

But tomorrow is another day, and if nothing else, there will be another flower of some sort.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

Weird Dream

I had a weird dream last night.

Well, that was a silly thing to say. Isn’t it the nature of dreams to be weird? That’s why I dislike them so much — they leave me feeling queasy and uneasy. When I found out that vitamin B-6 in the evening can help you remember your dreams, I immediately revised my vitamin-taking schedule to make sure I don’t ingest B vitamins in the evening. And it helped.

[In checking to make sure I was right about the specific vitamin that helps with dream recall, I noticed that all the articles were based on “new research” done in 2018, but I’d stopped taking the vitamin at night decades before that, so that “new research” was actually rehashed old research.]

What also helps is that if I do remember a dream when I wake, I immediately put something else in my head.

This morning, however, something banged against the house on the other side of the wall where I have my bed, and it woke me with a start. And somehow the dream stayed with me.

In the dream, I was visiting with my sophomore-year high school English teacher, and I decided to give her my latest book. My dreaming self could clearly see the published book, though when I went to get it, I couldn’t put my hand on it, and I realized the book hadn’t yet been published because I no longer have a publisher. And then . . . bang!

In that first moment of waking, I decided to go ahead and self-publish the book so I could give it to her, then it dawned on me that I hadn’t even written it yet. Didn’t even have a clue as to what the book would be about. Would never give that teacher a book of mine if I ever happened to see her.

The dream seems rather banal, now that I think about it. It was the bang at that precise moment that seemed weird, especially since I couldn’t tell if the bang waking me up was a real-life sound or a dream-induced sound.

Another odd thing is that this particular dream had its roots in a decades-old incident. That particular teacher once told me that she’d saved papers from every one of her students she thought would one day become a writer, then she looked directly into my eyes and said, “But I never saved anything of yours.”

I have no idea what she thought she was accomplishing by that statement, though it seems another example of how fellow students often thought I was “teacher’s pet,” but that teachers generally hated me. (In both cases, now that I think about it, it had to be due to my always knowing the answer. I was one of those silly students who read the schoolbooks the first few days of school, and then had nothing left to learn the rest of the time. I did get smart, though. When I realized some teachers refused to call on me anymore, I stopped listening to them.)

I clearly remember leaving my third-grade classroom at the end of the year. The teacher was sobbing and telling each student in turn how much she would miss him or her. Then it was my turn. She glared at me briefly without saying anything, then turned to the girl behind me and continued her sobbing good-byes.

And then there was my senior-year high school English teacher, who got a horrified look on her face when I walked into her class after everyone was already seated. (The advanced class I’d signed up for had too many people, and instead of being fair and eliminating the last to sign up, the teacher drew a name out of a hat — the only time in my life I ever “won” a drawing.) I’d had that horror-stricken teacher for freshman English, and she hadn’t liked me . . . not at all. And so we were stuck with each other for another year. (Though not really. I asked her if I could take the class independently — teaching myself, in other words — and she jumped at the opportunity.)

But this is getting far from the dream. I have a hunch the dream was more about writing and publishing than anything that happened so many decades ago.

I won’t ever go through the process of trying to find an agent or publisher again, and both my previous publishers have had very little luck with my books, so that leaves only one option — to self-publish, which is something I never wanted to do. Because of the confounding situation, it’s easier to not write at all (except for this blog).

Still, the dream seems to indicate either that I’m not through with writing yet or that writing isn’t through with me. Or conversely, it could indicate I took a B vitamin way too late in the evening.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.

Treading

This is one of those days when I forget I’m not a native of my adopted town. Everywhere I went this morning, as I wandered about doing a few errands, I met up with a good friend. I even managed to collect a couple of hugs, which was especially nice. I was particularly glad to see the woman I have tea with occasionally. We live only a few blocks apart, but we’re both so busy, it’s hard to find a time to get together (and with the weather being so hot, it’s hard to want to make the effort) but we took the opportunity today to make tentative plans for the only day this week we’re both free.

There is another friend I would have liked to encounter but didn’t. I’ve been meaning to call to invite for tea, but there just doesn’t seem to be time. (We’d planned to meet every week, and it’s embarrassing to think how long it’s been since we last got together.) It’s not that I’m so busy, really, it’s that I no longer like making plans to do two different things in one day. Two different things involving people, that is. Obviously, I do more than a single thing every day, even at this time of year when the heat is so enervating. Or maybe I should say especially at this time of year. Despite the heat, I am outside every morning for a couple of hours trying to keep my yard (and me!) hydrated and the weeds from taking over.

Doing yard work now is nowhere near as much fun as it was during the spring. The entire three months of spring I had to contend with strong winds, but still, I managed to find cooler times to be outside. Seeing the growth of the plants and enjoying the splashes of color as flowers blossomed made it all worthwhile. I’m in a holding pattern now, just trying to keep what is there alive. To be sure, there are a few blossoms now and again (lilies and echinacea right now), but mostly, the spring flowers are long gone, the summer flowers are disappearing, and the newly reseeded flower beds and the fall bloomers haven’t yet started to blossom.

Considering how hard it is to maintain what I now have, I can’t imagine what it will be like when the last two uncultivated areas of the yard are de-weeded and planted. I would like the raised garden to be built this fall (and so would the builder so he can check it off his list), but I’m not in any hurry to plant, though truthfully, that planting will be easy. This winter I’ll toss some wildflowers in the trough and then fill in with a few vegetables next spring. It’s the other area, a long stretch back to the alley, that is the real problem. So many weeds, and deep-rooted ones at that.

For now, I’m just treading water. Well, not treading water since mostly the water I see is what comes out of my hose. So treading soil, maybe? Treading paths? Treading errands? Whichever “treading” it is, I’m just holding my own, unable to overcome my heat-induced inertia as well as my garden’s inertia, to propel either of us forward through the summer doldrums.

Despite the rather forced metaphors, you get the picture and can understand why today’s serendipitous meeting with friends was so sweet, even if (as it seemed) I haven’t actually lived here my whole life.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

Lilies of the Field

I thought I was being clever when I named this post since I am attaching photos of my lilies. I also thought I was being clever when I Googled “lilies of the field flower” to see what exactly those flowers were so I could astound you with my knowledge.

And that’s where the cleverness ended, mine and everyone else’s. Like with so much else I look up for this blog, there is no definitive answer.

Some people think the lilies of the field are lilies of the valley.

Some think they are the now rare — and spectacular — white Madonna Lily, the lily from which our Easter Lily was derived. Because this wildflower exists only in the high valleys of Galilee and a few other places and not near the shores of the sea of Galilee, other people think the Madonna Lily can’t possibly be the original lily of the field.

Some people think the lily of the field is the scarlet martagon. Even though this flower did exist at the proper time, Swedish naturalist Carl Linnaeus supposedly named this flower “lily of the field” after the biblical reference.

Some people think the lily of the field is the poppy anemone.

So, apparently no one knows what the lilies of the field actually are. All the lilies pictured here are lilies of my own field . . . well, yard . . . though “Lilies of the Yard” doesn’t have the same ring to it as “Lilies of the Field.”

Making things even more confusing, only the first lily adorning this blog is a true lily, hybrid though it might be. The others are daylilies, which aren’t true lilies but are in fact a completely different genus.

But no matter what you call them, these lilies of my yard are lovely even though, as in the bible, my lilies toil not, mostly because I do the toiling — such as watering and weeding — for them.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

History Repeating Itself

I filter through a lot of information every day — books, articles online, pretty much whatever comes my way — and out of all those words, whatever sticks in my head is what I write about.

So what is sticking in my head right now?

Electricity.

The increase in electric rates, to be exact.

A lot of communities in southeastern Colorado are dealing with electricity rate hikes, which is no surprise considering that everything is going up. But what caught my attention is that along with a notice about the price increase, the electric companies are telling people how to save money by using less electricity.

One of their suggestions is to set the air conditioner thermostat at 78 degrees Fahrenheit. Since I usually have mine set at 80 if I’m not doing anything but reading, does that mean I’m supposed to raise the thermostat? Wouldn’t that cost me more than leaving it where it is? I might save a few cents on the cost of running the refrigerator but I haven’t found anything that says 78 degrees is a better temperature than 80 for the house and the appliances. And anyway, most of my life I lived without any air conditioning, so 80 is real luxury! Another suggestion was to use the outside grill (which I don’t have) instead of the stove or the oven because it doesn’t heat up the house.

These suggestions aren’t what caught my attention, though. It’s that utilities and other energy providers always pull this stuff — they raise the rates because they’re not making enough, so then they suggest that people use less energy and then . . . guess what?

I don’t need to guess. I know. And so do you if you’re old enough to remember the gas shortages and energy crises we dealt with during the previous century.

What happened back then was that people followed the suggestions and used considerably less energy — fuel for cars, natural gas for homes, electricity — which cut into the profits the price hike was supposed to create. That meant the energy companies ended up losing more money than if they hadn’t raised the rates in the first place. So they raised the rates again.

That seems to be what is happening now. And as history shows, by the time the cycle ends, no one is happy, and we end up paying way more for less.

Lucky us.

I was being ironic with that “lucky us,” but if you forget the cost of the energy, we are lucky that we have such things as refrigeration, lights, hot water, air conditioning, and heat, though I don’t even want to think about the furnace during these incredibly hot days we’ve been having.

Still, it is amusing (somewhat) to see history repeating itself.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.

Grief and Loss of Friendship

A recent widow wrote to Dear Abby because her best friend is blowing her off, cancelling plans, and not calling or texting. The widow is understandably upset because not only is she mourning the loss her husband, she’s mourning the loss of a friendship as well as being hurt and confused because she doesn’t understand her friend’s behavior.

Neither does Abby. (Understand the friend’s behavior, that is.) As she so often does, the advice columnist doesn’t bother to go into depth with her answer, just suggests that the widow join a grief support group and to keep busy so she doesn’t “brood.” After that, according to Abby, the widow can confront her friend if she decides it’s in her best interest.

Normally, that weak answer would make me think the columnist was ignorant of grief, but she herself is a widow. (She’s also 80 years old, which means she should be a lot wiser than she tends to be.)

A woman who recently lost her husband and whose best friend wants nothing to do with her is grieving, not “brooding.” She’s also doubly alone, and loneliness tends to exacerbate grief. So many of us who have also been left alone (with the obvious exception of the columnist) know the truth of grief — that it takes you in its grip and doesn’t let go until it’s ready to let you go.

As for the friend, it probably wouldn’t do any good to confront her. Chances are she has no idea why she’s ignoring her widowed friend. I’m sure the friend feels uncomfortable and hesitant to be around the widow, but if she’s like most people who are still married (I’m making an assumption here), she can’t handle the other woman’s grief because if she gives it any credence, then she also has to accept the possibility that she herself will one day be in the same unimaginable situation.

Death is shrouded with an element of blank. It is the great unknown and unknowable, and our brains are not equipped to handle the immensity. We who are left alone have no choice but to grapple with all the conundrums death brings, but others can and do choose to ignore the whole situation. And they choose to ignore us, because — to them —we are the situation.

While we are in the grip of our grief, the survival mechanisms of those around us are triggered. To avoid facing the unfaceable, people close to us will indulge in self-protective behaviors that shut us out. Some also sense that our needs are so great and so complicated that they would be best not to get too involved. And perhaps they sense their own inadequacy at dealing with the very topic of death.

Even though I’m sure they know deep down they are being unfair, people blame the grievers, as if the grief-stricken had done something to bring on their fate. (That in this case the husband died of The Bob would make it even easier to blame the victim, because either the widow or her husband should have been smart enough to avoid getting sick.) We humans simply cannot handle the idea that life is capricious, that we are living at the whim of fate. (I think learning to handle that concept is part of why grief takes so long. The biggest part, of course, is that someone intrinsic to our lives is gone, leaving us with a huge hole in us and in our life.)

It’s possible that one day the friend will resume the friendship when the raw grief the widow is feeling has been tempered by time and work (grief work, that is). It’s possible the friend will excuse her behavior the way people always do, professing that she thought the widow would be uncomfortable with couples or with people who are still coupled. It’s possible the friend will assume they can get back on the same easy footing they once had, but that easy footing won’t ever happen. Even if the widow comes to understand the friend’s behavior, it’s hard for me to believe that she’d ever be able to let down her guard around someone who so willfully let her down. But more than that, grief changes people. It’s as if a line was drawn, and those on the loss side see things differently from those on the “no loss yet” side.

A fellow griever once told me she had a friend who treated her as if her grief was a small thing, telling her to get over it, to move on, all the usual platitudes. Later, when the friend’s husband died, she called to apologize because she hadn’t known the truth of how hard it is to lose someone to death. As she discovered, you can’t know until you’ve been there, which is why I sometimes give people the benefit of the doubt when they offer paltry advice and scant comfort to people who are hurting. But it’s hard to give the benefit of the doubt to someone who has been there, yet still offers little help or understanding.

The letter writer should have come to me instead of writing Dear Abby. I do offer grievers both help and understanding, as well as a few stray tears of empathy.

At least I do now. Before Jeff died, however, I was as impatient and as uncomfortable as everyone else on the clueless side of the line.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

Grumply Day

Everything to do with the internet is getting ridiculously expensive. If you don’t pay with cash, you’re paying with the annoyance of multiple ads. It used to be that WordPress, where I have my blog, only showed ads occasionally, and never to someone who had an account. Now, they show ads to everyone, sometimes even in a few places on the same blog. I just checked one of my blog sites, and the ads were more prominent than the post!

If you don’t see ads here, you’re welcome. I pay to make sure no ads show up, but I can’t do that for all my sites. Because of the whole mess with FB, I have to reblog this article onto another blog, then upload the photo to yet a third blog or else I can’t post both the blog and the photo on FB. I could upload the photo directly to FB, but I don’t want them to add my photos to their database. Chances are, I’m fooling myself, but at least, this way, the photo is at one remove. All of this blog sleight-of-hand wouldn’t be necessary if FB hadn’t blocked this blog. For a while, I returned the favor, but too many people said they missed seeing my posts (even though I’m sure most people don’t see them anyway since FB wants me to pay to show my posts to my friends).

I should have persisted with my boycott, especially since I have come to hate the site with a passion. They are continually doing things to make even my few minutes on the site an inhospitable experience.

When I first signed up, it was at a time when hordes of authors were signing up, and no one had a clue what to do. So I started various groups (or took over a stagnant group or two) to give authors a place to talk about writing and to get to know other authors and readers. My plan worked for a while, but over the years there have been numerous changes to the groups so now they are worthless. And yet the changes still keep coming. The latest is that any entity can join any group and post anything (can you say “spam?”). I could, of course, delete the groups, but that would mean deleting each of the thousand members individually, and that takes almost forever. (I know because I did that with another couple of groups.)

What a mess! If I ever decide to leave FB permanently, I will spend the time to remove all of my tracks. And when I do, I won’t have to worry about the ads on my other WP sites because I’ll never need to use them.

If I sound grumply (a typo, but I like the made-up word — it expresses how I feel — so I’m leaving it), it’s no wonder. I am grumply! Not only is it hot, but a strip of my lawn along the fence is dying. I think it accidentally got spritzed with Roundup (not my doing). The grass has been steadily dying the past couple of weeks since the spritzing, no matter how much I water. (If the grass hadn’t been killed, it would have started to green up by now.) To have to deal with internet shenanigans on top of all that is too dang much.

There are a couple of solutions for the rest of the day — turn the air-conditioning down a bit, turn off my computer, and grab a book. And if it is the roundup that killed the grass rather than the July heat, I’ll wait four months until the poison has dissipated and then reseed the areas.

I hope your day isn’t as grumply as mine.

But wait, I forgot! there is one great thing about today: a blooming lily!

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

Bringing Hope

Well, I managed to psych myself; instead of the Christmas novel I checked out of the library yesterday making me feel cooler, it made me think the Christmas season is upon us. Although I am horrified — and terrified — by all I am learning about the ramifications of the recent Supreme Court ruling, I heard myself think, “I can’t write about that because it will ruin people’s holiday season.”

Though truly, it’s better to ruin an end-of-year holiday — no matter what one celebrates — than to ruin lives.

I always think of the Addams Family cartoons when I see an issue of The New Yorker magazine, but although a recent article in the magazine was as macabre as the cartoons, there was nothing humorous about it. The author of the article, Jia Tolentino, mentioned that we’re not going back to before Roe vs. Wade, we’re going somewhere worse. Already, the ruling is affecting treatment of women in the midst of miscarriages since doctors in “ban” states fear being charged for aborting the fetus. But repercussions will go much further than that. In fact, some states want to pass “fetal personhood” laws, granting full rights to the fetus, and none, apparently, to the mother. (Under such laws, women can be arrested and detained and held hostage for doing anything that could be considered inimical to the fetus, even having a single drink or driving too fast.)

The police state is at hand — phones, internet searches, social networking sites, purchases will all be tracked to make sure that no pregnant “person” (it’s always a pregnant “person” now; you can no longer say “pregnant woman”) escapes surveillance. And if they do, the authorities will rely on information from neighbors, fellow workers, and acquaintances to fill in the record. (Some “ban” states are even planning on arresting women — oops, sorry, pregnant persons — on drug trafficking charges if they order the abortion pill from compliant states.)

The harshest thing about the ruling is that the majority of people in this country believe in a woman’s right to choose. Since it has been shown that the will of the people is seldom taken into consideration when decisions are made and laws are passed (the lobbyists see to it that their corporate clients are the beneficiaries), it makes me wonder who will be making money off all this.

Even ignoring any potential financial aspect, there are so many ways this ruling will come back to bite fertile people (even so-called pro-lifers) that . . . well, that I don’t want to think about it anymore lest it ruin my Christmas holiday even if it is almost six months away.

Luckily, I am too old to be personally involved (except in the way that any rescinding of rights affects us all).

And even luckier, I have new blooms in my garden to bring me hope.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.

Winter in July

I checked out a Christmas novel at the library this morning, hoping that the cool chill of winter from the story would bring relief from the summer heat, and oh, what magic! Shortly after starting to read the story, I distinctly felt cooler. I must confess that the coolness wasn’t literary magic but electrical magic — the air conditioner clicked on.

Still, I take my magic however it comes.

Most often, these days, the magic that comes my way is in the form of “yard pretties.” Right now, most of the colors in my yard are varying shades of greens, from the grass, from plants that have flowered and are taking a breath before producing more flowers, from plants that have spent their blossom-forming energy, and from seedlings that are too young to flower.

And yet, there are splashes of color wherever I look. A patch of golden zinnias,

a trio of black-eyed Susans,

a dwarf red plains coreopsis,

an especially eye-dazzling daylily,

and Johnny jump ups.

Oddly, despite their delicate looks, (like miniature pansies), Johnny jump ups are rather aggressive. The Forest Service says it’s an invasive species that has contributed to the decline of 42% of U.S. endangered and threatened species. Eek. Despite the “eek” factor, I doubt my single plant will do much damage to the environment even if it survives the winter, either the literary winter the Christmas novel will bring this July or the actual winter the spinning Earth will bring in December.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

Boom! Pow! Bang!

This is my least favorite of all USA holidays, not for any ideological or gastronomical reason but because of the firecrackers. The loud noises on the fourth have always been a problem for me, but especially now because where I live, people don’t save their fireworks until the actual holiday; they buy and use them every day from the week before to the week after the fourth.

That is a lot of booms, cracks, pops, pows, and bangs to have to contend with!

Even worse, although in Colorado, all fireworks that explode or leave the ground are illegal, we are so close to the Kansas border that every kind of illegal firework is available. The code enforcer doesn’t bother to enforce that code (or any other that I can see), so here I am, having to deal with all that noise . . . and danger. In past years, sparks have showered down on my garage roof. Luckily, none caused a fire, but fires are possible, so I have to pay attention. And last night, the smell cordite was so strong, I’m surprised my smoke alarm didn’t go off.

I suppose I should be grateful all that noise is just for entertainment value (though why people find it enjoyable, I don’t know) and is not from nearby bombs, incoming missiles, and other weapons of war.

And I am grateful, though I can be just as grateful without all those body-jarring reminders.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.