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A close to Tuscany as I can get...
May. 27th, 2005 07:21 pmIf one is willing to ignore Oak Harbor like the plague-ridden ugly little industrial town that it tries so hard to pretend it is not, Whidbey Island can be considered as beautiful a place as most anywhere we Americans fantasize about when we daydream about Europe.
My mornings are spent idyllically, sipping coffee, feeding the pets, listening to Irish CDs, and watering my plants while closely supervised from the front porch by our basset hound. Since my teens were spent in the Sonoran Desert, I have the useless knowledge of various cacti and succulents, being able to recommend echevarria variants to interested parties. And so my days are spent trying to describe my garden to my New England family: "there's this bushy plant with gorgeous purple flowers, somewhat like oregon grape, but not". At some point, I do hope someone takes pity on me and ships me a new copy of the Sunset Garden book for the Pacific Northwest.
At least that's the plan.
Since my husband works 2nd shift, I have his broad shoulders and thick arms to order about all morning. He has no interest in gardening, but realizes the new sofa he bought over my protestations isn't quite as comfortable overnight as it is for a few hours of watching television in the evenings. Joshua will garden if tools are involved, especially power tools. The new Home Depot is almost as dangerous a destination as an occult shop and so, weekends are often spent with the whir of the electric weed wacker gratingly filling my ears as I try to drown it out with my sewing machine. If anyone needs a new tarot bag, do let me know, I'm using them for stocking stuffers next Yule.
On other news: I have become the neighborhood's "Gentlewoman Farmer". This became clear when a friend called with a rather unique problem. She was preparing a soup with cilantro only to realize hers was no longer fresh. As I gave her the recipe, I am somehow responsible for this, apparently. "Then I remembered that you grow cilantro, don't you?" My only response: "Indeed I do, come by for sun tea, I just put some dandelions in to spice things up."
My afternoons are somewhat different, however. Working from home and attending graduate classes, I'm the available one. Being "available" as a Navy spouse is a rather dangerous existence. This means that when the hubby assures his co-worker that we can feed their pets while they go on vacation, I'm the one it falls to. Granted, my husband has settled upon the most spectacular excuse for assigning me these responsibilities. I'm the one who can medicate a cat without spilling blood. I'm the one who can recall the different names of the various dogs, cats and birds which comes in rather handy, as our friends seem incapable of going on vacation unless their pets are on antibiotics, a special diet and eye drops.
There's another gory little detail that comes into play here. Since our friends have various exotic pets and I've made a point to have various exotics during my life, it falls upon me to handle the conure parrots, tarantulas, tree frogs, hedgehogs and snakes that my husband both despises and fears. I cannot say if this is the inevitable result of having pagan friends, but I do realize sadly my two mini-lop rabbits present no challenge to our friends when the tables are turned on them. A few have already called dibbs on the rabbits, should they do sicken or die unexpectedly. Especially while we're on vacation. This does not assure me.
And so I spend my days, wandering the garden, watering anonymous plants and my beloved herbs, considering new landscaping themes and inevitably driving the island taking care of people's wayward pets. Having an eye for the aesthetic, I avoid Route 20 and stick to the backroads, every road with a shoreline has become my favorite. The temperature on the island at this time of year stays in the high sixties, generally, and the sun is rather punishing, but we forgive Sol and dive into Puget Sound from a neighborhood beach. And so, these drives would be a rare joy if not for the price of gas involved.
For this week's errands, David Sedaris has been explaining life in Normandy to me as I travel from house to house, feeding whomever meets me at the door and assuring pets that their parents will return soon. Or I'm sending my husband over to feed them. That alone is worth a few chuckles and I wonder if there's a future such as Sedaris' in my future.
Ours is a neighborhood of folks who wave at passing cars, something I'm beginning to admire. Ours is a neighborhood where folks politely tsk at the folks who leave their empty trash cans out on Fridays and at the folks with beaters in the front yard that haven't run since the Nixon administration. Ours also is a neighborhood of dogs, and I'm more likely to be able to recall the name of someone's dog than their own, even as they ask after my three. Especially as mine are available to the lovely older ladies who adore walking dogs, but cannot seem to commit to owning one. Seldom is the week where someone does not drop by to borrow one and I'm often amused at how these things are decided. Those with a sense of humor prefer the Basset, Tracker's a polite dog to walk, amusing to be around and cannot go very far - perfect for those minuet-styled walks. Gracie, the border collie, is politely considered excitable and a bit more of a handful. Ladies come in pairs to walk her. Glory, our geriatric collie, is both polite and beautiful, and as she will walk forever in that stately walk of hers, she's a favorite of the more mobile seniors. Even more amusing than the choice of dog, is the opinion of Glory's new haircut - we had her shaved and she now resembles a long-legged deer. This has been greeted with enthusiasm ("poor thing got so hot on our walks!" they exclaim) to polite disapproval ("the groomer allowed you to do that?")
I can hardly complain about them, as I have my own opinions about things. Having been raised by Bohemian Bourgeois parents, I stalk the local video stores for independent films and remain unreasonably insulted when I cannot find "Orlando" on DVD. Having been told a time or three that I have a certain sort of snobbish air, I try hard to fake some sincerity at the check out when asked if I found everything. I'm rather behind on my film viewing, as my husband typically refuses to see anything in the theatre that won rave reviews at Cannes. We each read "Entertainment Weekly", but different sections catch our attention. This becomes obvious when he tells me there's a new edition of "Star Trek: Insurrection" available and I return with the news that Frasier Crane has been announced as the "The Beast" in X-Men 3, as its the only thing I can offer that will register a respectful response with him. I'd rather discuss the book reviews, but that's a lost cause. Ours is a mixed marriage of clashing cultures.
He watches "Judging Amy" and "Crossing Jordan". I myself, favor M.A.S.H. reruns, West Wing and C.S.I. and so will predictably watch anything titled with acronyms, apparently.
And yes, I'm aware, dear heart, that I'm most likely going to turn out quite a bit like Maxine Grey (Tinne Dailey on Crossing Jordan). And no, I haven't decided if I'm content with that.
Yet.
And so another week has gone by on our beautiful island. Its not Tuscany or Ireland, but on days like today, its hardly fair to complain.
My mornings are spent idyllically, sipping coffee, feeding the pets, listening to Irish CDs, and watering my plants while closely supervised from the front porch by our basset hound. Since my teens were spent in the Sonoran Desert, I have the useless knowledge of various cacti and succulents, being able to recommend echevarria variants to interested parties. And so my days are spent trying to describe my garden to my New England family: "there's this bushy plant with gorgeous purple flowers, somewhat like oregon grape, but not". At some point, I do hope someone takes pity on me and ships me a new copy of the Sunset Garden book for the Pacific Northwest.
At least that's the plan.
Since my husband works 2nd shift, I have his broad shoulders and thick arms to order about all morning. He has no interest in gardening, but realizes the new sofa he bought over my protestations isn't quite as comfortable overnight as it is for a few hours of watching television in the evenings. Joshua will garden if tools are involved, especially power tools. The new Home Depot is almost as dangerous a destination as an occult shop and so, weekends are often spent with the whir of the electric weed wacker gratingly filling my ears as I try to drown it out with my sewing machine. If anyone needs a new tarot bag, do let me know, I'm using them for stocking stuffers next Yule.
On other news: I have become the neighborhood's "Gentlewoman Farmer". This became clear when a friend called with a rather unique problem. She was preparing a soup with cilantro only to realize hers was no longer fresh. As I gave her the recipe, I am somehow responsible for this, apparently. "Then I remembered that you grow cilantro, don't you?" My only response: "Indeed I do, come by for sun tea, I just put some dandelions in to spice things up."
My afternoons are somewhat different, however. Working from home and attending graduate classes, I'm the available one. Being "available" as a Navy spouse is a rather dangerous existence. This means that when the hubby assures his co-worker that we can feed their pets while they go on vacation, I'm the one it falls to. Granted, my husband has settled upon the most spectacular excuse for assigning me these responsibilities. I'm the one who can medicate a cat without spilling blood. I'm the one who can recall the different names of the various dogs, cats and birds which comes in rather handy, as our friends seem incapable of going on vacation unless their pets are on antibiotics, a special diet and eye drops.
There's another gory little detail that comes into play here. Since our friends have various exotic pets and I've made a point to have various exotics during my life, it falls upon me to handle the conure parrots, tarantulas, tree frogs, hedgehogs and snakes that my husband both despises and fears. I cannot say if this is the inevitable result of having pagan friends, but I do realize sadly my two mini-lop rabbits present no challenge to our friends when the tables are turned on them. A few have already called dibbs on the rabbits, should they do sicken or die unexpectedly. Especially while we're on vacation. This does not assure me.
And so I spend my days, wandering the garden, watering anonymous plants and my beloved herbs, considering new landscaping themes and inevitably driving the island taking care of people's wayward pets. Having an eye for the aesthetic, I avoid Route 20 and stick to the backroads, every road with a shoreline has become my favorite. The temperature on the island at this time of year stays in the high sixties, generally, and the sun is rather punishing, but we forgive Sol and dive into Puget Sound from a neighborhood beach. And so, these drives would be a rare joy if not for the price of gas involved.
For this week's errands, David Sedaris has been explaining life in Normandy to me as I travel from house to house, feeding whomever meets me at the door and assuring pets that their parents will return soon. Or I'm sending my husband over to feed them. That alone is worth a few chuckles and I wonder if there's a future such as Sedaris' in my future.
Ours is a neighborhood of folks who wave at passing cars, something I'm beginning to admire. Ours is a neighborhood where folks politely tsk at the folks who leave their empty trash cans out on Fridays and at the folks with beaters in the front yard that haven't run since the Nixon administration. Ours also is a neighborhood of dogs, and I'm more likely to be able to recall the name of someone's dog than their own, even as they ask after my three. Especially as mine are available to the lovely older ladies who adore walking dogs, but cannot seem to commit to owning one. Seldom is the week where someone does not drop by to borrow one and I'm often amused at how these things are decided. Those with a sense of humor prefer the Basset, Tracker's a polite dog to walk, amusing to be around and cannot go very far - perfect for those minuet-styled walks. Gracie, the border collie, is politely considered excitable and a bit more of a handful. Ladies come in pairs to walk her. Glory, our geriatric collie, is both polite and beautiful, and as she will walk forever in that stately walk of hers, she's a favorite of the more mobile seniors. Even more amusing than the choice of dog, is the opinion of Glory's new haircut - we had her shaved and she now resembles a long-legged deer. This has been greeted with enthusiasm ("poor thing got so hot on our walks!" they exclaim) to polite disapproval ("the groomer allowed you to do that?")
I can hardly complain about them, as I have my own opinions about things. Having been raised by Bohemian Bourgeois parents, I stalk the local video stores for independent films and remain unreasonably insulted when I cannot find "Orlando" on DVD. Having been told a time or three that I have a certain sort of snobbish air, I try hard to fake some sincerity at the check out when asked if I found everything. I'm rather behind on my film viewing, as my husband typically refuses to see anything in the theatre that won rave reviews at Cannes. We each read "Entertainment Weekly", but different sections catch our attention. This becomes obvious when he tells me there's a new edition of "Star Trek: Insurrection" available and I return with the news that Frasier Crane has been announced as the "The Beast" in X-Men 3, as its the only thing I can offer that will register a respectful response with him. I'd rather discuss the book reviews, but that's a lost cause. Ours is a mixed marriage of clashing cultures.
He watches "Judging Amy" and "Crossing Jordan". I myself, favor M.A.S.H. reruns, West Wing and C.S.I. and so will predictably watch anything titled with acronyms, apparently.
And yes, I'm aware, dear heart, that I'm most likely going to turn out quite a bit like Maxine Grey (Tinne Dailey on Crossing Jordan). And no, I haven't decided if I'm content with that.
Yet.
And so another week has gone by on our beautiful island. Its not Tuscany or Ireland, but on days like today, its hardly fair to complain.
