Life in the vegetables

Mr. Next Seat at my favorite pub this evening gave me an uninhibited stare as I rooted about in my bicycle pannier and drew out two squash. Two yellow squash shaped like geese; I nestled them spooning together next to my IPA. "If you'd like these...." I said to Miss Bartender, "they stir-fry up great!"  Mr. Next Seat said to me, "well! I was wondering what those were for...if you were going to put them in your beer or something."

It's beginning to be the time of vegetables, and because I work not on a "real" farm which sells things but on one for demonstration, I have been giving away some produce whenever I can think of it. I brought a cabbage for Mrs. Church who came to let me play the pipe organ earlier.

So here is a post on life in the vegetables.

The tomatoes. The terrible tall twining tussling tumult of tumbling tomatoes, turning me green. Each tomato plant has as much growth and vegetation as its own personal rainforest. The buggers have outgrown their stakes now, the growing tips foundering off into space, all blind and hopeful. There are hundreds of these plants. The company's breeders have crossed a lot of expectant parents with a lot of other expectant parents and they'll see what hybrid tomato goodness results.

The tomatillos are just as tall but are gangly, like a set of light fixtures, with lamp shades: those little fruits in paper husks. 

The zucchini astound and appall me: so much production. I paw through the helmet-sized leaves and arm-spiking stems, weaving my head around, trying to get a glimpse into the thicket only to be blocked by a leaf-in-the-face, to save the younglings. Lest a youngling zucchini Become Forgotten, pumping itself into an obscenety of vegetative pornography. "WHY" I say for the 5th time out there, and also, "More?!", and also: "Noooooo....."

I have been eating zucchini for lunch for the past 2 weeks. I eat with the crops: I can't wait for the storm of Kale. But zucchini pan-toasted with pesto, cut raw into sticks and dipped in amazing mustard, sliced onto salad, in zucchini-pineapple muffins....

Basil beguiling, bopping up bush-fully, begging to be rubbed in palms and inhaled. The aroma of the Thai Basil just about makes me curl my toes with glee: how is it that a simple smell can be so utterly captivating.

My office friends see this job glorified and sometimes I point out the repetitive non-creativity of it, the waste of grown vegetables, the endless weeding. And other times instead I am swept up in the romance of it: of standing to stretch my back and gaze out over the sweep to the lake, of watching a bumble bee greedily bustle about a squash blossom, of seeing everybody grow and flower, of the good sleeps and the endless hunger from outdoors work.

Yesterday, because of this rain, I was indoors flustering with labels on the computer. A screen: all day. It has been months since I've done that. At the end of the 8 hours I limped over to wish Bossman a good evening, and added--with spinning eyes and fogged head--how hard it was to focus on computer tasks. And I used to do it for weeks on end as a graduate student. "Yeah," he said knowingly, "working indoors is just hard after you're used to outside." 

I am a chameleon changing color with the seasons: in the winter I am white like the offices, in the summer I am brown as the soil. Or browner: I noticed the other day the dirt on my body was lighter than my skin.

I am loving this summer.

Stolen

There is no good way to begin this post. But I must write this.


Yesterday my bicycle was stolen.

I'd been curious, before sometimes when I'd lock up my bicycle and walk away from it (in a sort of dark wondering) what it would feel like to come back and find it gone. 

Well. It feels disbelieving, panicked, shocking, grief. I'd cable-locked it outside the Rochester Public Market for all of 30 minutes in the sunny morning, skipping inside to buy blackberries and a scone. And then upon return: that sinking sight of empty fence.

That bicycle was my greatest single source of happiness: my freedom, my frugality, my defiant expression, my grace. It was speed and endorphins and making friends on wheels and blowing off steam. It was manifestation of memories of ferries in Washington State, dirt roads in Cambodia, grocery-carrying in rural NY.  I'd laughed, cried, sung, and sweated on it.

This is a very fascinating study in Attachment. Who knew an object could represent so much?

I did the responsible, pointlessly hopeful, and only thing I could do of contacting the police and filing a report. I felt sickened, surreal. There is little hope in recovering stolen bicycles: they become entangled in pawnshops, drug deals, passed from person to person, broken up for parts. And the logistics of being bike-less were dawning on me: how would I get around now (I had bicycled to the city from Geneva--48 miles)? How would I do that Bicycle MS Ride I'd been fundraising for?

After the paperwork I asked for a cup of water, gathered all I had left in the city (my phone, wallet, and a scone--everything else was on the bike) into a plastic bag, and walked away from the market, feeling amputated and bereaved. I made it as far as the Memorial Art Gallery lawn, looking for a sanctuary. I sat under a tree there, set my cup of water down, and cried.

To maintain some structure to what once had been a joyfully beautiful day (full of hopes of coffeeing and letter writing, and later riding with a new bicycle boy) I decided to continue with my plan of going for a Very Wonderful Latte, at one of the few "best" coffee shops in Rochester. I walked and it took me some time and I grieved and pouted and wondered about stealing and attachment.

"Nice hair," said a police officer, having a smoke outside the coffee shop. I was passing him as he told a self-depricating story about his recent bicycle accident. He was neither old nor unattractive, and was quite engaging, and so I shared that I'd wished I'd had a bicycle accident but I just had mine stolen. He was working a 16 hour shift and needed a rest and I had no bicycle to ride now, so we sat and drank coffee and shared woes and listened. I learned about his beats, about the frustrations of the police hierarchy, about how the fruits of his labors are often unseen and thankless. I told him about how this bike had gone 14,000 miles, how it had been a graduation present from my grandparents; I showed him its picture--all neon green handlebars--in Cambodia, a crowd of dusty kids encircling it enquisitively.

And I don't know what possessed me to do it, maybe it was flipping through my things to get the bicycle photo--but I took from my notebook one of my four-leaf clovers and gave it to him. He seemed genuinely pleased; nobody had given him one before, and he tucked it away somewhere. "Really great to chat with you" he said as he drove off. I agreed, and added in silly hope added: "If you happen to see a bike with neon-green handlebars...."

Then Mr. New Bike Boy fetched me, all consolingly, from the coffee shop and listened to my grievances and we went thrifting and walking in the sun in Rochester. I still felt terrible, but no longer as shocked.

.................................
 
As the sun began to set my phone rang. Mr. New Bike and I were driving and I scrabbled to answer.

It was Officer Coffee. "Can you describe your bicycle to me again?" he asked. I went through the rack, the mirror, the 2 water bottle cages. He sounded unconvinced. Then I described the neon green handlebars and the green stripe in the seat. "I think I've found your bike" he said, and Mr. New Bike Boy told me later I kicked his dashboard in my excitement (I didn't even realize it at the time). It's that moment when Hope becomes a feeling, a fire pulsing through your blood, taking over your physical being.

We waited a 10-minute-long 5 hours--giddily hopeful but without full validity yet--for Officer Coffee to meet us and when that white police car rolled up and I saw those green handlebars gleeming from the trunk I bolted alongside the car hollering and Officer Coffee opened his door and--tazer, bullet-proof vest, handcuffs and all--I jumped directly into his arms.

This was one of the top three hugs of my life and I will relish it for some time. I was giddy and laughing and pounding him on the back and he nearly lifted my feet off the ground.

He told his story. "I left you after coffee and there wasn't much going on....and I realized from that photo with the Cambodian kids, this wasn't just a bike. This was someone's memories. So I drove in radiating circles beginning at the Public Market until I got to Route 104. Then I drove down Clinton Ave." And there, on one of the top heroine corners in Rochester, he saw a group of kids with bicycles. And one with green handlebars. He approached them, "nice bikes," he observed, " 'specially this one.  You could ride pretty fast on this one." Then when he asked whose it was, everyone started looking at their boots and shuffling away. He had it.

They'd stripped my handlebar bag, back-rack, and water bottle cage off it. And the computer recorded that the thief had been about 6 miles in distance and had hit 30 mph (?!). But it was my bike. Returned. Incredibly intact.

I was elated and grateful far beyond normalcy. "How can I EVER thank you?!?" I asked Officer Coffee. "Well. You gave me a hug," he said, obviously pleased. We were all grinning like our faces might split. And then he added that it was one of the best jobs he'd had in weeks: that he got to make some girl's day, that he saw the tangible fruits of his work.

And then he reached into his pocket and opened his RPD badge: right there besides his photograph was my four-leaf clover. "It might have been because of this," he said.

Wow.

Wow.

What if he hadn't commented on my hair? What he had been called to a more diverting homicide that afternoon? What if I'd given up on coffee and instead went home? What if neither of us had listened? What if I wasn't always finding 4-leaf clovers and carrying them around with me?


The magic of that four-leaf clover comes not from some Irish superstition, but from what it represents. A little gift, two people listening to each other, someone being particularly compassionate and generous with his time, human connection and beautiful coincidence.

Brown Summer of Blues

On Nesting and Ephemera
A day not working! But lest I go 24 hours without bending over and cramming dirt under my fingernails, I went out to "my" front yard and planted some ornamental grasses. I have been Setting Up House, you see. I've moved into a more permanent location in Geneva, a simple farm house which will eventually contain a total of 5 occupants. As for now here, it is just me and an ambitious and nervous Chinese boy. (There might not be much oxygen to go around when all 5 of us are here, and I can't even imagine sharing a fridge. But I shall fuss about that one when I actually have to.)

After living out of boxes since December (leaving the much-adored grad student house, squatting at home for a bit, bicycling 'round SE Asia, floating in Washington and Idaho for a few moments, and then crossing the states back to central NY) I have invincible callings to have all my clothes again on hangers, my spice jars labeled and awaiting, and generally feel nesty and territorial.

Except this needs to be a practice of dis-attachment for me, because this is by no means "my" place. This is a lesson in sharing. Wanting to claim and cozy-up in all expansive solitude, instead I need to share counter space with Mr. China's drying brownies and be careful not to startle him as I enter the kitchen. Likewise, he has to deal with my Chenopodium album weeds taking up space in the fridge.

Furthermore, at this point I have no inclination to stay in Geneva past the Time of Colored Leaves. So hanging photos on the wall, stringing Christmas lights, and digging ornamental grasses into the ground feels like a great effort for something only temporary. But what really isn't temporary? I might as well put my full heart into setting a nook for myself in this town, even if it's just for a bit.

A great blessing about this housing situation has been that Mrs. Landperson has allowed me to expedition to her neighboring half-empty student houses, to search and rescue furniture, plug strips, and dish drainers. I've spent essentially no money to settle in here, for which I am grateful, because I am certainly not making a "grown-up's" salary. But I may adopt as many plants as I want from work.


On Writing
Mornings are precious to me, a quiet freshness and expectancy hangs over a new day--before anyone starts their lawnmower--and I've spent this one conducting pancake trials and reading a novel. And also hoping the wind is from the east, as I'm bicycling to Rochester soon (powered by said pancake trials). 

And writing. It has been so long! I come back from my days of planting cabbages, weeding, and setting irrigation and I don't find myself inclined to write. I was wondering what this is about: that I feel that which I'd write about has become repetitive (worked really hard bent over in the sun, went biking, made food, played organ) or that I can't find a nice ribbon to tie around my anecdotes to be a theme or take-home message or little perky inspiration.

Some writing came upon me as I was just arriving at work yesterday by bicycle. Writing in my head. It was the most inconvenient time, yet charmingly composed sentences were rolling forth and diving wastefully off my handlebars into the ditch. I enjoyed them, but they were ephemeral and could not be kept. I wonder if there is merit in that though, the head writing? To just in the moment enjoy what one's brain is creating? I call them Word Birds.

A random anecdote:
I woke in the middle of the night, one of those rather hot nights. I was pulling my sheets neat and smoothing my quilt: I was making my bed in my sleep. I eventually became cognizant enough, wondered why I was doing this, and got back in it. All freshly made.


A Title
I have characterized this time in my life. I like doing this; I like to look back and title the chapters of my past. And if I do it currently I believe it may help me with Pre-Nostalgia, with the "We Now", the living fully in the present regardless of what past gold I may be pining for. Last summer was the Summer of (India) Love. The summer previous was one of Big City and Becoming Bold, in Seattle. I reveled completely in these times; they may indeed have been the zenith of me so far.

This summer is the Brown Summer of Blues. Because I am working in the brown soil, I have become brown myself: and the blues have been the soundtrack to this. The sweat, the sun, the soil: the basic goodness of physical work outdoors. Mr. Bossman donated to me his old iPod (my first "device!"), and is lending me CDs of blues, jazz, and bluegrass--and this raw expressive type of music seems fitting to this place. The beauty of the finger lakes, the rocks in even the prime soil here, the unpredictable tirades of thunderstorms, the people satisfied with bad cover bands behind the Ramada and chicken barbeques. Generally, this is not the sleek, New-Yorker reading, commuter-train riding, coffee-shops-open-on-Sundays place of Seattle.

So bluegrass and blues it is. The blues are about love and not having love. About working hard. These are very applicable to me right now. But in a bigger way the blues are about Expression, participating in the human experience actively, not just moping in depression. Standing up and singing about it. Feeling and contributing.