Why the Home & Garden Network Will Never Stop Here

It's the last week of the semester, and I'm suffering my usual angst and guilt over being stuck in the house with a stack of papers to grade while the yard and gardens run amok, threatening to grow, vine, spread and cover beyond my control. We're eating the first asparagus, the gooseberries are loaded with tiny sour fruit, the apple and apricot trees are in full bloom, and Ray has begun the weekly pied-piper mowing, trailed by a flock of 16 peacocks in full mating dance. But the snow shovels are still leaning against the house in our bewilderment over this sudden spring.

Out here in the country, we have only the brief illusion of domestication - turn your back, and you'll have yarrow-ringed tulips and creeping Jenny climbing your pant legs. We've long since given up the fantasy of a manicured showplace acreage. Now we only try to stave off a complete takeover. Here's an old poem that sums up my more realistic gardening philosophy...

GARDEN HYMN

This is no English tea garden, pal.

No fragile limp fuscia

edged in periwinkle ruffles,

no meandering crocus border,

wisteria draped over a pale trellis,

no painted wrought-iron bench

resting in the thick, damp shade.

No thin ivy dipping its compact buds

in a moss-blue wading pool,

dotted with alabaster cherubs and

creamy-white water lilies.

No sir, this is serious prairie stock.

Drought-resistant bush beans,

sixty quarts worth,

squared off in rotten railroad ties.

Screaming red Big Girl tomatoes

strung to chicken wire

with old support hose.

Hot jalapeño peppers splitting

in a sudden mud-splattering downpour—

a brief storm that somewhere washes out

a delicate, orderly flower bed.

Anthony Hennings: The Backstory

One of my son’s friends was killed recently, Anthony Hennings. He was 24. Maybe because I’m a midlife woman, I can say with some authority, he was a baby. A baby.

The local paper and TV news, of course, have sensationalized his death by focusing not on the tragedy of a young man’s sudden exit from this world, but on the “alcohol-fueled argument” that led to his shooting (not clear if it was accidental or intentional yet). Maybe because I’m a product of the 70’s, I can say with some authority, we’ve ALL made bad choices in adolescence and young adulthood. If you haven’t, you’re lying.

I have no doubt that Anthony made some bad choices in his comet-brief life. And one of those bad choices got him killed. I want to take some responsibility for that, too. I’m part of a culture that teaches kids practically from birth—at least from the age when they can watch TV and hold a videogame controller—that violence is the ONLY conflict resolution. And with those same videogames, we’ve trained kids to be GOOD at that violence. And with TV, movies and games, we tell them over and over, that violence is cool, colorful, it’s okay, it’s a bazillion-dollar industry. Death is just so much bright red splatter on the screen, then you play again.

But in the sensationalistic “thrill seeking” that Anthony’s tragic end is generating in the press, the story of his life, the human-ness and humane-ness of a sweet, sometimes lost, kid is missing. I’ve known Anthony since he and my son were in sixth grade, and here’s what I will focus on as I remember him and honor his life…

When my son decided to be baptized at First English Lutheran Church in Lennox, Anthony, already baptized and confirmed in the church, sponsored him.

Along with several other Lennox skateboarders, Anthony helped in the fundraising and publicity that led us to getting a Tony Hawk Foundation grant, Lion’s Club help, and enough extra cash to build the skatepark in Lennox.

Anthony, my son and a few others built a skate ramp and rail on our sidewalk in Lennox. One day, the Argus Leader came to do a story on our park-building efforts. My son attempted a trick, fell, and broke his arm. Immediately, Anthony jumped up and ollied for the Argus photographer, who had the good sense to run Anthony’s picture and report on the park fundraising, not on my son’s mishap.

Anthony grew up in a home with his mom and younger sister, no dad around. The kids sort of raised each other while their mom worked to keep up their home in Lennox. Their mom died of breast cancer when Anthony was 22. If you think a kid’s done needing parents at 22, think again.

When we took the boys to Omaha for a weekend of skating and to go to the Henry Doorly Zoo, that bony, leggy little Anthony annoyed the zoo ostriches by doing a dead-on, nose-to-beak impression of them. He annoyed zookeepers by trying to feed the ostriches his snow-cone. I tried to be annoyed, too, but I couldn’t keep from cracking up.

More recently, when I ran into Anthony at a skateshop in SiouxFalls, he immediately hugged me and told me about his mom’s cancer. He asked how our lives were. He told me about his life. He talked about his mom and tried not to cry. In fact, EVERY time I ran into Anthony in these past four or five years, he’s hugged me, talked about his life, and asked about ours.

Five days ago he was skating with my son. He had a little tear in his jeans. By the time they were done skating, they were both laughing at the completely shredded leg of those jeans. I like that…they were laughing at something silly, like the kids they are. The kid Anthony was.

I’m wishing for Anthony another go-round, one that’s peaceful, one with two healthy, happy parents who enfold him in love and protection and direction that doesn’t end at 7 or at 22, one where alcohol and violence aren’t the remedies for pain and loneliness, one where he can laugh, fall in love and be loved in return. One where he can grow up.

THEN & NOW: Road Trips

Ray and I are about to leave on a road trip to Oklahoma, where I get to read poems at the Scissortail Writers Conference. I was sorting my first-aid accoutrements alphabetically and by container size, and it occurred to me that I don’t pack like I used to “back in the day,” as the Whippersnappers are fond of saying. Here’s a little comparison…

Preparation THEN - Turn off the lights.

Preparation NOW - Start planning and list-making at least 2 months in advance. As departure nears, set thermostat schedule, leave list of directions for feeding dogs, frog, parrots, peacocks and barn cats, stock fridge and pantry for pet-sitter and maybe bake a nice cheesecake to leave, make list of phone numbers (two cell phones, hotel, vet, neighbor, conference coordinator, conference hall), water plants, clean aquarium and parrot cages, do laundry, clean house, wash sheets and change beds. If there’s still a little time, re-paint living room. Day of departure, check all water and gas lines, check stove, lock all doors and windows, turn off the lights.

Packing THEN - Sundress, halter top, one pair of jeans, crocheted shawl, broom skirt, all in a backpack. Underwear is just a symbol of The Man’s attempt to keep us down.

Packing NOW - Enough clothes in every conceivable combination to survive several months without wearing the same thing twice, including enough clean socks and underwear to supply a Girl Scout jamboree. Three suitcases: one for basic clothing, one for 15 pairs of shoes, sandals, and boots, and one for various weights of jackets and sweaters.

First-Aid Kit THEN - You’re kidding, right? The Universe is watching over us. Besides, if you plan for accidents, that’s just what you’ll get, Star Child.

First-Aid Kit NOW - Assorted creams (antibiotic, antifungal, antiitch), Advil and any stronger pain meds on hand, 17 shapes/sizes of bandaids, gauze pads, tape (paper, surgical, duct), finger & nose splints, Betadine, iodine, alchohol, witch hazel, Imodium, Tums and 22 homeopathic remedies, essential oils, and flower essences.

Toiletries THEN - Leather cords for wrapping braids, toothbrush & toothpaste (maybe), patchouli.

Toiletries NOW - Comb, brush, 6 kinds of hair accessories, foundation makeup, eye liner, mascara, 2 kinds of lip gloss, 2 kinds of antiperspirants, talc, nail clippers, tweezers, shampoo, conditioner, 3 colors of nail polish and polish remover, toothbrush & toothpaste, mouthwash, soap, day cream, night cream, cucumber peel, eye serum, neck serum, patchouli.

Extras THEN - Guitar, maracas, sleeping bags.

Extras NOW - Cell phones, travel mug, thermos of Ethiopian coffee, 2 gallons of filtered water from home, camera, laptop, iPods, chargers, travel Chemex coffee pot, coffee filters, corkscrew, beach towels (good for wrapping Chemex), pillows, blankets, travel neck pillow, parkas/gloves/stocking hats, guitar, maracas.

Cooler THEN - Boones Farm Strawberry Hill wine, peanut butter, Wonder bread, brownies.

Cooler NOW – Gaucho Club Malbec wine, yogurt, hummus, oranges, grapes, blueberries, goat feta, flatbread, spelt crackers, V-8, freshly-ground Ethiopian coffee, prunes, figs, organic half & half, homemade deer jerky, protein shakes, frozen water bottles, Chubby Chipmunk crème brule truffles.

Navigation THEN - Love & luck.

Navigation NOW - MapQuest directions, road atlas, AAA phone numbers, fear & trepidation.

Lodging THEN – Kansas cornfield, Oklahoma city park, sleeping bags, stars.

Lodging NOW – Advanced reservation confirmation printouts for Holiday and Comfort Inns, showers, 2 queen beds, breakfast buffet, whirlpool tub, sauna, fitness center, wireless, cable TV.

The drive THEN - Long conversations, frequent stops to play & sing & eat peanut butter sandwiches at roadside rest areas, reorganizing the gigantic box of cassette tapes, listening to one album at a time all the way through, brief playful romantic interludes in the car, at the rest stops, in the bathroom of a Kansas IHOP.

The drive NOW - Alternating driving and napping due to exhaustion from preparation. Occasional minor arguments over whose iPod rules. Frequent stops to go to the bathroom and double-check maps. Frequent texting to make sure kids, pets, and pet sitter are okay. Silent admiration of the diversity of the American landscape. Silent wishes that you were back home already.

The Ides of March - a poem

THE IDES OF MARCH

The seer was right to warn us,
beware the ides of March.

It’s a dangerous time, peering

through iced windows at the jeweled

tease of crocus and daffodil.

We've weathered another season

of deep-freeze, locked up tight

in muscle and mind. We're tired

of winter’s grey and gritty leftovers.

But this is no time to get careless,

toss a floorboard heater through

the beveled glass and go out,

where Spring flashes her flannel petticoat

embroidered in pinks and greens,

leaves us gaping, breathless,

in air still cold as a knife blade,

stripping off the down.

Flatlander Confession

I realized midway through our recent road trip to the Black Hills that I am a flatlander. My oldest son and his family moved to Rapid City, SD a month ago, so we headed out to see them. The drive out was pleasant and uneventful. We made the perfunctory stop at Wall Drug for nickel coffee and deerskin gloves. It’s off-season west river, so traffic at Wall and across the state on I-90 was sparse, just the way we like it. We cruised along with Patti Griffin, Los Lobos, the Pretenders, Loggins & Messina, Aretha, Leon Russell and Randy Newman. We ate car food. We took turns putting our feet up on the dusty dash. We were on Spring Break. Ah…


We arrived at dusk. The Black Hills aren’t really hills; they’re mountains. They’re smallish mountains, foothills of the Rockies really, but compared to 0 feet above sea level at home, Lead/Deadwood’s 4500-5200 feet is certifiably mountainous, dangit. So as we drove through Rapid and started climbing that night it hit us—the unsettling transition that happens when flatlanders meet elevation. The curves and ascents/descents sent us into Acclimation Mode—a period usually lasting a day or two and marked by slight nausea, faint dizziness, shaky legs, and a sudden propensity for swearing. And if it’s winter, and if Jack Blizzard has been particularly puckish that winter, multiply the severity of symptoms by a bazillion.


The undulations of Rapid City itself are okay, because “civilization” can dim one’s awareness of elevation, but my son lives west and north, up and over, up and over, 10 miles from the city limits in a little hilly hamlet. And it isn’t the elevation itself, or even the constant swaying motion of side-to-side driving that does it; it’s the fact that we can’t see what’s ahead. Back home on the plains, we can See.For.Ever. We KNOW what’s coming. If a crazy driver suddenly veers into our lane, say, we can simply choose to ease off the road and let the foolish probably-texting-teen driver whoosh by. And if we slip off the road on ice or snow, we’ll glide gently, almost in slow motion, to rest in a snow-filled shallow ditch, where we can sit in our car, hold hands, and admire the expansive horizon until a kindly neighbor comes along to pull us out.


West river, every fifty feet of driving is a spine-tingling unknown. The “Falling Rock” and “Watch for Bighorn Sheep” signs don’t help, because now we have to navigate turns, avoid the plummet-to-your-death guardrails, pop our ears, pry our hands off the overhead hand-holds, dodge plummeting boulders, and veer around rutting rams (and possibly peacock-pilfering mountain lions)—all in the same split second: rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat. If we slip off the road in the snow or ice in the Hills, they will need the Jaws of Life to pull our mangled, unidentifiable bodies from our compacted car, and that’s only if they can see down far enough to find us, and only if we haven’t landed in a lake or creek. You know those “Why die?” cross signs along the Interstate? They line Black Hills roads like a picket fence.


Okay, slight exaggerations because I’m a total wuss. So Ray and I perfected our Annoying Old People Driving skills on this trip. By white-knuckle driving at a staggering 25 mph, and by calling out sweetly “slow the *&%# down!” whenever Ray was driving, we survived the daily drives to my son’s house, the obligatory Chubby Chipmunk chocolatier run (she now has a truffle vending machine out front—brilliant!) and a quick trip to the slot machines (won then lost $4) in Deadwood, dinner with friends in Spearfish, and the breathtaking drive through Spearfish Canyon, where we continued our family tradition by “baptizing” our new grandson Clyde in Spearfish Creek water.


The real flatland kicker, and a delicious irony, was that as we left the Hills behind and headed home, we found ourselves driving in near-blizzard conditions on I-90. This put the kibosh on our planned drive through the Badlands, and kept us swearing, sweating, and swerving for 7 or 8 hours. We counted a couple dozen cars, trucks, SUVs and semis in the ditches, flipped over, jackknifed, or hitched up to tow trucks between Rapid and Sioux Falls, and there were times when we weren’t sure we were still on the road. Still, I knew that if I could avoid other cars and they would avoid me, sliding would mean a fairly soft landing, and I would SEE it coming. From Sioux Falls to home, the dreary rain, the grey melting snow, and the withered brown corn stubble as far as the eye could see was the most beautiful vista I could imagine.


Don’t get me wrong—I love love love the Black Hills dressed in any color except white. I’ve been all over the country, and still, I once thought my dream life would be teaching English at Black Hills State in Spearfish and maybe living in a cabin on a creek up in the Hills. But I think I’m finally ready to admit that I’m a flatlander. I want that endless horizon. I want to squint and believe I’m looking at Wyoming. Like the song says, don’t fence me in…not even with the breathtaking beauty of the Black Hills.

Treatise on Beauty

In my younger years, I kowtowed to all the fashion do’s and don’t’s. But I no longer shrink in shame when someone says, “you look your age.” I’m celebrating midlife by cutting my ties to Maybelline, by letting loose my folds & frills, by cultivating the wisdom that comes with age if we invite it in, and by shifting my thinking about “beauty” toward a higher ideal of healthy radiance and sound character. What am I giving up in my unwillingness to drag myself, panting, after youth?

Skin Care & Makeup. Some women (and probably men too) will plop down $50 for anti-aging anything-in-a-jar, though these “miracles” are most likely common kitchen ingredients like olive oil and parsley. Foundation makeup is really just highly refined spackling or drywall compound, isn’t it girls? If properly applied, preferably with a trowel, one can no longer detect holes, pockmarks, dents and seams. Makeup in general is really just carnival face-painting for Big Girls. And some Big Boys, although most men have the good sense to see through the ruse. If I had the nerve, my preferred method of applying makeup would be a la Pris in Blade Runner—one pass with a can of black spray paint.

High Heels. They were invented (by a man) to keep medieval riders’ (men) boots from slipping out of their stirrups. But why they’re now tilting the pelvic bones, throwing out the spinal alignment, blistering, bunioning & binding the feet of women worldwide, is beyond me. Perhaps with the invention of OB/GYN stirrups (I’ll bet it was a man), someone (probably a man) thought, “Hey! I know what would help these little ladies…” The only other explanation I can come up with is that men secretly want to date upright-walking [insert hoofed animal here]. Seriously, there must be a video of a goat, walking upright and possibly dressed in sequins, on YouTube. Compare this to any video of a runway model in 4” stilettos, and you’ll see exactly what I mean. Flicka—stamp once for YES, twice for MAYBE.

Diets. I understand the health issues associated with obesity and want to avoid these pitfalls. I don’t want to develop the shuffling walk that signals painful joints buckling under too much weight. But if I’m in good health and reasonably active, don’t even think about bringing up BMI. I’ve been a human laboratory for Atkins, Pritikin, Weight Watchers, South Beach, cabbage, Fit for Life, and countless other experiments in depravity, starvation, obsessive selection, and restriction. I’ve worked constantly against my body’s own desire to maintain a certain voluptuous, healthy weight, albeit contrary to the medical charts. But I’m tired of thinking constantly about what goes into my mouth, when we should all be thinking more about what comes out. I’m not falling for the “protruding pointy-boned waif” model of beauty any more. I’m in the fluff-is-fundamental camp. The curves-are-commendable camp. The camp that has Moon Pies and 1% milk ‘round the campfire.

Spanx. This may be the one legitimately lifesaving fashion accessory. It’s not that we want an impossible, unhealthy hourglass figure; we just want our Spanx to contain and steady us, so we aren’t yanked hither & yon by the momentum of unbound curvaceousness. And so we can slide into that blue beaded sheath dress.

Bad Hair Days. Let’s heat an iron rod in the fire, then get it as close to our eyes as possible without actually burning flesh, so we can make these dead protein cells curl. Cool. Better yet, let’s soak our entire heads (and possibly our brains) in toxic chemicals that alter the color and kink the dead cells, THEN let’s torch them with the iron rod. I currently have long red hair. I’ve buckled under peer pressure to cover the few newly emerging white hairs with henna, but that’s as far as I’ll go. I alternate between a messy ponytail, braided pigtails (yes, even at my age), and the occasional crew cut I get in moments of extreme hair exasperation. I understand and occasionally adopt the military haircut, the nun’s concealing wimple, voluntary baldness.

Shaving. Come ON. Really? I don’t know first-hand, but I hear that even men are shaving now. Apparently, hairless is in. It creeps me out a little when they say it’s “sexy”—doesn’t that suggest an attraction to prepubescent children? I think it would be smarter, if we really want to lose the fur (and I’m not sure that’s such a good idea for South Dakota prairie folk), if only people who are naturally hairless through genetic mutation were allowed to breed for the next few generations, until we’re all born smooth as silk. Like the Sphynx cat, or the Chinese Crested dog with just a little floof on top. Then we can get to work on regrowing our vestigial tails.

Wonder/Miracle Bras. Here’s a scoop: we live on a planet with gravity, and gravity pulls everything down toward the earth. Even breasts. There’s something absurd about trying to holster & barricade the girls, keeping them shoved up into our collarbones and tethered to our shoulders against the perpetual force of gravity. And again, isn’t it just a little creepy that our definition of beauty drives us to cut, mold, carve & reduce our own mammary glands to simulate the barely-there bumps of puberty? Let’s go back to “Reubenesque” as a model of beauty. Let’s embrace & reward the inevitable drop—another ounce of respect for each ¼” of descent.

There’s something ultimately liberating about giving up on the popular definition of beauty. I’m not driven (mad) to be the goddess of seduction any more. I want to be the goddess who can turn your pig into a toadstool if you make my children or grandchildren cry. And with the time & money I’ll save, I'll stock my cooler with Belgian beer and Moon Pies, don my comfy flannel shirt and sweatpants, and trek off for some backwoods camping with the coyotes who, unimpressed by taut skin and perky breasts, will sing me to peaceful, unfettered, cronish sleep.

Deep-Freeze Delerium

• Nothing on your shopping or to-do list is worth the white-knuckle, whiteout ice-crawl to town.
• If you’re snowed in long enough, you will uncoil, welcome silence, lose your fear of self-reflection.
• Pearl Bailey was right to call the kitchen “a mystical place, a temple.”
• Knitting is meditation for people still plagued by their grandma’s [insert Christian denomination] warning: “Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop.”
• Blooming oncidium orchids are clear proof of alien colonization on Earth.
• We will rail against the other woman/man until we become her/him.
• Gordon Hempton makes the finest environmental/nature sounds CD’s on the planet. You crank the six house speakers and fill your home with babbling brook, wolf calls, and summer thunderstorm.
• If you complain loud enough, your dear, concerned friends will start emailing you photos of blooming spring flowers, wild flamingos, green summer meadows. You are grateful and make a screensaver slide show of only warm, brightly colored things.
• Spectral Super Bunny makes ghostly appearances here & there, briefly, atop the snow drifts in your yard. He has a head the size of pit bull and taunts you with his mystical ability to vanish.
• Peacocks will eat leftover brown rice, onions, and garlic, cooked in hot salsa. But if you serve it on a metal cookie sheet, it will take them an hour or two of posturing and clucking and dancing around to make sure the cookie sheet won’t eat them first.
• The bleakness of a blizzard is humbling, awe-inspiring, or devastating in direct proportion to the affection you feel for the land and the amount of Doritos and Ethiopian coffee beans you have on hand.
• You find out your CD of the Dalai Lama and his entourage chanting for Vaclav Havel is actually Dutch mantra singer Hein Braat. You’ve been the victim of a viral Internet urban legend. You block out the new information and pretend it’s the Dalai Lama.
• If you practice owl calls on your back porch late at night, the owls will eventually start to answer, and you will shiver every time.
• Winter is a necessary step before spring. Spring. Before long, blue crocus and purple hyacinth will peek through the snow. And that’s why you live in South Dakota. Even in the winter.