Old Folk

My gramma’s old. She eats like a bird. She must have an eating disorder but I don’t think we like to say things like that about old people. We like to make more stomach-able excuses for them because, as we all know, old people don’t do anything bad or self-serving; lo, they are simple folk who bring joy and peace to the lives of youngins. So, my gma, she’s not a big fan of food, and picks at the food on her plate like she’s playing russian roulette and some forkfull, SOMEWHERE, is laced with poison. Then she’ll shake a bag of candy at you when you’ve already got a brownie in your hand and say “Oh, candy? You said you’d like some? Here, take some candy with you.” I’ll give YOU some candy, lady. Though for all this grandma-hating chat, I love the old bag. I can’t even believe I just called her an old bag. YOU’RE an old bag.
Girlfriend got pluck.
Do you think, when my generation gets old, that we will begin to play bridge and wear cardigans and lined wool slacks? Is it a product of a generally more conservative upbringing that stops them from having wild parties at her retirement community? DO they have wild parties at her retirement community and I just don’t see it? They are all just so proper and I wonder, do you get more proper as you get older or when I’m old, will I be just the same as I am now? Will I be lazy and watch television all day because I can (obviously this will be in 3D with laser vision plus it will be scented, obviously)? Will I watch marathons of hour-long reality programs about weight-loss and addiction and hoarding because why not? Or will I be ‘too busy’ like my grandma? Will I spend afternoons down at the retirement community bar with my boozy friends just because I can? Or is one of the perils of having boozy friends is that most of them are gone by the time you’re 85 anyways?
Will I still wear jeans everyday? Really, honestly? I don’t think I’ve gone more than 3 days without wearing a pair of jeans (unless its so hot you sweat through them) since I can remember. But when I’m an oldie, will I wear slacks? Surely, when I’m old, I will just wear slippers with excellent treads on the bottom to facilitate their wear both indoors and out. Hm - this seems where I may currently merge with the oldies - a desire for comfort footwear.
I dunno, though. I think probably by the time I’m 85 I’ll not have changed too much. But who knows, you know? Nearly sixty years will pass before I turn 85 - that’s a freaking lifetime. When I think about it that way, my grandma can act any way she wants. I think of how much I recreated my self in the last 27 years - changes so distinct I sometimes wonder who that girl was who resided in my body ten years ago. So maybe gma is currently, with 85 years of tailoring, just the BEST, most AWESOME version of herself and I just can’t realize it. Fook. I should just shut up, eh?

I was speaking in the ancient tongue of my people.
I looked up, with my chin pressed against my neck. I opened my eyes wide, showing the whites all around. A smirk arose upon my lips and, keeping my head still, I glanced from side to side. One eyebrow may or may not have been raised. Then, the signal - a MASSIVE rolling of the eyes! Come forth, my brethren, it seemed to say. Like a siren song the big rolling spirals called for them as if to say "Don't you ALSO think this is ridiculous?!?", proclaiming "I'm going to sit here nicely but in reality we BOTH know this is totally stupid..!".
And in a perfect world, across the room a face should have lit up - one of the fellowship. Someone else who thinks this is total nonsense, whatever "this" is. A commiserating smirk would have been great but I would have happily settled for a knowing but reproachful glance, a smile hidden under pursed lips.
But no! It was like I was on Mars! A wasteland of sincere, earnest faces. I was at choir, and we sounded bad. Our singing was really rough and yet the conductor seemed to like it - come on! My people would understand. My people would have made it more enjoyable to wade through the six feet of manure slop that this rehearsal was becoming. But no. I was alone. No wicked, amiable alto greeted me from across the room. No soprano elbowed me in the side as we both stifled laughs.
Here is what rehearsal was like. I shall write it as a play, for that is what is was - a farce.

Except play writing is hard so I'm also going to interject first person.

Preface: You know the voice you use when you're singing in the parking lot? Not loud - you're just returning your cart and kind of hum-singing, the kind of singing that is in no way hampered by not knowing the words. Woosh, goes the cart into its little corral. Oh, the weather outside is frightful, huh huh ha huh ha da dum da. And as long as we hum hum ho, let it snow, let it snow, let is snow..., you murmur. That sort of singing. Well, APPARENTLY that is how we are supposed to sing in this choir. Little tiny underwater voices and I think it sounds dumb.

Let the play begin.

The Hushed Whisper of Albemarle

Scene - any meeting hall, any Monday night
Characters - picture the choir you are in - these are the exact same people, for example:
There is the person who makes lengthy announcements about making sure we don't waste rehearsal time making lengthy announcements,
There is the alto who laughs too hard at all the Conductor's tired jokes,
The soprano who's in love with him,
The tenor section half-filled with women,
The bass who asks questions in a self-important manner only to realize that the question was already answered a few moments ago when he wasn't listening
GLARINGLY ABSENT FROM THIS CAST: merry band of women
The Conductor
Snarky girl in the corner (me)

Act I, Scene 1

Eliza: Oh, my. All this whisper-singing is affecting my pitch. I can't be having that. Surely it would be better if I sang a teensy bit louder but perfectly on pitch. Here it goes. "But the righteous ones are iiiiiiiiiiiiiin the hand of Go-"
Conductor: Ugh, ladies - stop, stop, stop. Too loud! Quieter - this is an art song, not an opera. Try again.
Eliza: Hm. That didn't go well. Okay. I guess I will just sing in this dumb, quiet voice. How am I going to sing the high notes singing like this? Oh, well. I guess I should just go for it - what is it that conductors are always saying - I'd rather you sang with confidence and make mistakes than sing meekly? So, quiet, but with confidence. "Hand of God, nor pain nor grieeeeeeeeeeeeeee -
Conductor: Pitch, ladies, pitch. Some of you are not getting these notes. Start over, try again.
Eliza: This is not going well. Maybe I have a cold. Surely he can't mean just me.
Everyone else: But the righteous ones shall beeeeeeeeeeee in the haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand..."
Eliza: *mute*
Conductor: Stop, stop! That was wonderful. Whatever you did there, do it again. Always do it like that from now on.
Eliza: Surely this is some sort of remarkable coincidence.

-now, repeat this scene a couple of times, for added effect-

Act I, Scene 2

-later on, after break-

Everyone else, plus me singing really quietly and sometimes just mouthing the words: For he haaaaaaaaaaaaaaath foou-ound cooooooooooomforrrtttttt.
*high note*
Bleeeesss-
Conductor: No, ladies, terrible. Like this, sing like this - Aw. Ah. Awh.. Just like this Awwwhhhhhhh....
Eliza: I don't have a falsetto. How am I supposed to sing like a man?
Everyone else, plus me: Nor pain nor grief shall nigh them...
*high note*
Eliza: Ahw - (cough) (squeak) *mute*
Conductor: No, ladies, sopranos. I'm sorry I'm always picking on you...
Eliza: No, you're not.
Conductor: but let me...
Eliza: Oh, no.
Conductor: tell you about...
Eliza: Here it comes.
Conductor: my time at Westminster/Peabody/Oberlin/Jesus' own personal choir of angels...
*conductor tells long rambling story*
Eliza: Why? Why? This is not relevant! If we gave out stickers for self-aggrandizing stories you would be covered in two inches of flimsy, sparkly adhesive plastic..!! Arg!
Conductor: blah, blah, blah ...So that is why you should listen to me. Let's start again. Remember - aAHhhhhHWWhwhwahh...
Everyone else plus me: Blessssss-eeeedddddddddd they. Bleeeesssssssssss-eeeedddddddd, bleeeeeeessssssssssssssssssed
*high notes*
Everyone else plus me minus a few ladies: *lipsynching*
A few ladies: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwhhhhhhhhhh...
*lower notes*
Everyone: ... theeeeeeeey thaaaaaaaaat mourn...
Conductor: Perfect! Perfect, ladies! You sounded perfect up there. Do it just like that from now on!

-INSERT EYE ROLLING HERE-

CURTAIN.

Seriously. I felt like I had been transplanted to MARS and was trapped in a land of genuine Martian choral singers, none of whom seemed to be living in the same space/time continuance as me... Madness.

Well, folks, that's it. But the show will be running through May, every Monday from 7 -9 at a community center near you. Hope you like it, the cast sure does..!

Makin' Butter

And what do you do?

Smug, smug, smug. "I am a teacher." Ho, ho, HO! Smuggly-smug.

I never, EVER realized how much comfort there is in having an easy answer this question. Its so awkward when you don't know what exactly to say! What do I do? Well, nowadays I start with making breakfast. Then a cup of tea. Usually I watch a little bit of the Today show. I listen to a lot of public radio and ofte- OH. You didn't mean that, you meant WHAT IS MY JOB. How foolish.

I don't like this question anymore. Its too hard. For example, I have gotten a lot of this lately: "Oh, you've moved to Charlottesville! You go to UVA, then?" "Uh... no," I reply. Poor question-asker. They stand there, eagerly awaiting the standard response of what I DO do, and instead I stand there mute. Pressure's on you sucker, I ain't saying anything. In reality, I shuffle either myself or the conversation awkwardly away.

My Ma says I'm living off the grid. But that's hardly a profession. I could say that I live in a yurt. But again, not a job. And yes, I have high, high hopes that my market garden will be marvelously successful, but every time I respond to the question with "I am a market gardener" people look at me funny, I inevitably have to explain what that means, which leads to the fact that I have not actually started the garden yet (as it is FEBRUARY) and then I just feel so odd that the shuffling happens as awkwardly as when I don't say anything.

I remember being so pleased at being able to say "Me? Oh, yes, I am a teacher." It made me feel so good. You know, helping children - how admirable. Piffle - that's not what it was about! Saying "I'm a teacher" made ME feel good. It made me feel smug. Look what I've done, I subconsciously thought. Ho, ho HO! I am only twenty-two, but look at me my with my job title. HaHA! Look who did what she was supposed to do, all in the right order! TaDa!

Regardless of the fact that I didn't really like my job, and that I had dreams of doing something else entirely, my job still made me SOUND good. Sound right, really.

Don't worry. Bloated sense of self-worth has been replaced with awareness and discomfort.

I've got to figure it out. I could merely say "I am a gardener." But that sounds about as convincing as saying "I am a knitter" or "I am a magazine reader". But I can hardly say I'm a farmer, can I? What do you farm? Oh, four thousand square feet. Oh, vegetables. Sounds dumb.

Maybe I need to be more confident. "I am a small business owner!" "I own a market garden!" No "I am starting..." or or shuffling away meshugana. Confidence. Maybe if I say the words "exclamation point" at the end of each sentence that would help.

Anyways, at least I understand now. Am a bit more worldly, if poor, employed only by myself and on edge when in conversation with unfamiliar people. Cognizant about the temptation to follow the beaten path and do it the best, and the weird feeling that occurs when you leave it, regardless of the reason why. Maybe next time I'll answer "Oh, I develop my level of consciousness concerning societal patterns and how individuals yearn to fulfill them. Simple stuff, really." That makes saying "I'm a market gardener" sound easy...

Garden Plans

Here is the garden plan for the first half of the garden-year. A "1" means this crop will be planted first and then taken out or turned under to make room for the "2" crop.

If a bed is split into an "A" section and a "B" section, this means that half the plot will be planted with each crop. Sometimes this is because I don't need or want eighty square feet of a crop (as in Broccoli and Brussels's Sprouts - they are ornery to grow) or, in the case of the pole beans, I didn't want their height to block the sun from other plants too much.

You might ask why I didn't plant, say, all the potatoes next to each other and make my life much easier. I don't know everything about gardening, but one thing I read over and over again is not to plant the same plant or type of plant in the same place year after year. Sure, if you're going to use tons of pesticides and chemical fertilizers, this might not matter. But when you're growing in a sustainable manner, this won't work. Each plant takes (and gives) certain nutrients to the soil. Additionally, each plant attracts certain pests. If you plant the same thing in the same spot, year after year, the soil becomes deficient in the very nutrients that plant need to thrive AND you are practically advertising a tasty meal to plant-specific pests. So, with the idea that next year, someone could use these plans and just SHIFT everything one plot "up" (from 1 to 2, 2 to 3, etc), this is a somewhat sustainable garden plan.

One last note - all plants are members of families, and the whole nutrient/pest thing counts for that, too. So try to put about 3-4 years between them. No broccoli next to Brussel's sprouts next to cabbage or eggplants hanging close to peppers and tomatoes.

Below is an excel file GRACIOUSLY put together by Homeplace Earth (www.homeplaceearth.com). This lady is all down-home usefulness, and her recent DVD came with some files to help you plan your garden. For you, mostly, its helpful to see what varieties I'm planting. SESE means the seeds were purchased from Southern Exposure Seed Exchange and JSS means the seeds were purchased from Johnny's Selected Seeds.

Seeds Plants Needed PDF

Decca Market Garden

So, here's the garden plan for the year. Each of the twenty-five beds are 4'x20'. Bed A is 4'x54', bed B is 3'x60', bed C is 3'x31' and bed D is 6'4"x68'.

Today I was informed that someone's brother was having his prostrate removed. Surely he is now looking forward to quite an apathetic future. No more kneeling and pleading for him - no, sir! With a renewed, detached sense of calm, maybe he could visit Thompson's Funeral Home and Cremation Services, Inc. "Huh?", you think. "Eliza, why are you familiar with the local afterlife-care service industry in Charlottesville?" I'm glad you asked. See, Thompson's is a particularly non-apathetic business. The owners of this fine business have certainly NOT had their prostrate removed. For you see, I have joined a new choir (horrible usurper that I am) and when carefully observing others via visual clues (aka judging) I noticed the delightful lady next to me carrying her music around in a "Thompson's Funeral Home and Cremation Services, Inc." tote bag. They are incorporated, you see. A serious business that requires a serious business plan - including advertising in the form of tote-bags. No longer resigned to waiting for the inevitability of death to spur business - no, no! they are advertising!
I wonder, though, if advertising a funeral company can improve business? Actually causing death - yes, I can see how that would improve business. But on the whole, I understand why death-related businesses - in general, of course - spare on advertising costs. I wonder - was the tote bag free? Did she receive it upon the death of a loved one who patronized said funeral home or cremation service? "I am so sorry for the death of your loved one - I hope this free tote bag shows the full spectrum of my sympathy towards you". That sort of thing? Maybe she works there? But surely they wouldn't make bags solely for their employees - maybe they were leftovers from some ill-thought out promotion - Refer Us Your Next Dead Acquaintance And Receive 10% Off Your Next Burial AND A Complementary Tote Bag. Something like that. The mind wanders when presented with a thing like this.
Needless to say, I won't ask her. I will continue to "visually observe", though. Maybe more clues will come in the form of her pencil case being a decorative urn or her trying to pass her hearse off as a station wagon. We'll see.