My Wildflowers are Dead in a Dunkin' Donuts Bag

My wildflowers are dead in a Dunkin' Donuts bag under the back porch which I flooded with my compost bucket that has not composted yet because I haven't got any worms.

It's not a metaphor for life.

This summer marks the third summer in a row I will be stateside; moreover I will spend the entire summer recovering from ankle surgery. The prospects aren't good for a successful summer. Therefore I mapped out the things I love about Europe and life that are absent in my American life. When I think of bliss I think of Montmarte on a summer day. Cliche, I know. Even calling it cliche is cliche. But I imagine a sunny, white-walled apartment with flowers and cat on the deck, overlooking a small neighborhood street lined with cafes and outdoor seating. I imagine a baguette and bruschetta on the table and espresso or red wine in my hand. (Probably espresso since the time is early morning, but if I can't drink red wine at 10 am in my fantasy when can I? I surely wouldn't be eating bruschetta at 10 am... so on second thought we will move the time to 11:30 or 12 and I will have wine thank you very much.) Music floats through the room, there's an open book on the table, and somehow in the midst of all this bliss I've found time to write.

Where does Dunkin' Donuts fit in? Watch:

I set out on my 10 step plan for a European Humboldt Park summer of domestic, one-footed bliss.

Step #1: Sunny white-walled apartment. The living room is mostly white except for that one mint wall...close enough.

Step #2: Flowers.

Pre Wildflower Genocide

Flowers are a bit burgeuoisie for yours truly, even in my EuroFantasy, but herbs are practical and bring me to #6-baguettes and bruschetta. You can't have bruschetta without herbs or tomatoes. Strawberries bring to mind London summers, another place of joy in my mind so I will plant those too. I plant my garden, including wildflowers in an attempt to bring some pollenating insects for the berries. (A gardener suggested native plants and when I think of Illinois wildflowers come to mind.)

I plant enough seeds in each pot so I could transplant some later on (30-50 per pot). -Mistake 1- Within 2 weeks all the plants (except strawberries which suffered a terrible fate) were sprouting seedlings. Lots and lots of seedlings. My cilantro now looks like grass. There will be a genocide of cilantro when I decide which plant should live and thin the rest. I had no idea that thinning didn't mean transplanting when I started, so when my cilantro begins to look like my parent's overrun weed garden I decide it is time to move some plants -Mistake 2- over so I can have two pots of each herb going all summer.

I start with wildflowers, sagely, as those were always the least practical plant in my container garden. I do as told on You Tube, watering them an hour before transplanting, tap the pot, and then VOILA dumped them out. (Let's call these -Mistakes 3 and 4 collectively-.)

No root ball....uh-oh....(No shit no root ball these are no more than tiny little bean sprouts- you know the kind you put on your sandwich? Dipshit. ) Previously, when you asked what happened to the wildflowers I may have told you it was the cat. I lied. I happened to the wildflowers.

After half an hour of desperately sticking little sprouts back into the pot and planting some new seeds since the rest are going to die, I decide against transplanting any more plants. I make some new pots with the new Miracle Gro soil that weirds me out and is NOT a part of my French fantasy and put all pots on the deck. Four days later I have one live wildflower seedling.

-Mistake 5- is not my fault, but fate. I wake and it is pouring rain. The boyfriend, who I could usually get to rescue the pots, is working OT and I have no one (save cat) to help me bring in the new plants as it torrentially downpours. I decide plastic bags are going to be the best I can do on one foot, and I finally hop over to the door to see little seedling carcasses floating in a puddle of death in the wildflower pot. I hop out in the rain (surgery dressing, pajamas, and all!) to rescue the plants but (-Mistake 6-) the deck is flooding. If you put your compost bucket (which is not compost yet but just watermelon rinds and mildew) on top of the drainage pipe to keep the cat from escaping to certain doom to the alley below through the drainage pipe, the roof will flood.

I get the water gushing off the roof (thankful the building below is currently unoccupied as I can't be accused of any resultant water damage) and rescue the struggling oregano and preserve the dignity of the wildflowers. Each plant gets its own happy hat of plastic bag and the wildflowers are pushed under the deck in a dunkin donuts bag. I hop inside, smearing mud all over the walls, but content that my flowers are rescued.

The sun comes out a few hours later and I hop back outside to unhat my happy little plants (-Mistake 7 as it is sun-showering.) By the time I come home from work it is chucking buckets again and I am back out in the rain on one foot and the wildflowers go back under the deck where they have been for two days until I see a clear blue sky (-Mistake 8-? CO2?)


They never even made it to seedlings, so I won't bother telling you what happened to the tomato seeds, because I don't know. Needless to say I won't be getting tomatoes this summer. Not even the fast sprout hybrid (wait did that say fast sprout or no sprout?).

So what's the lesson? Besides call my friend the gardener before any more gardening disasters? There's always a grand conclusion, especially if it involves a Mississippi-sized flood on the back roof.

The lesson: I'm writing about it. I've spent 50 dollars on soil and seeds and planter kits and all I've got are dirty garbage bags on the back porch and mud on my little shoe the doctor gave me for my healing foot. I have 8 Mistakes, but I've got step 2 of Christine's road to happiness: "flowers and cat on the deck." Does it matter that because of cat the deck flooded and the flowers are dead? I will keep you posted as I decide.

Wicker Park

The fountain is empty except for some dead leaves, but the sun is bearing down upon the benches circling the park's centerpiece. I find a seat just beyond the shade beside a man with a bag of chips and a book. Looking around, my eyes will pass over some people, whose days will continue on unnoticed by me. Other participants in this scene I will notice for no particular reason.

For instance, a tan dark-haired woman sits reading in the sunlight. She wears a red coat and a red headband in her short wavy hair. It's the same haircut my mom wore in the early 90's. There are deep lines in her face, but they're not the fine lines that hang off the sagging skin of an old woman. They're tight crevasses in firm skin that has been aged by weather; they sit on her face like valleys in a dessert. A younger man and woman who are holding hands come and greet her. Hugs are exchanged and a brown paper bag is pulled from a satchel as all three settle back on the bench. 

Some people will impose themselves into my conscious coincidentally. Some people will impose their existence onto everyone else around the fountain shamelessly. Some people are noteworthy quite by accident.

A couple sits in silence. She sits on a bench holding a book open, but she is looking across the fountain. Her eyes are hid behind dark sunglasses. He is squatting on the curb beside her. His hands are folded and his face is drawn. They don't speak or look at one another.

"Colin! Colin, no!" A little boy turns and waddles back toward his mother. She has interrupted his game, but her only instructions are to stay close so it resumes shortly. His high voice chirps and chatters unintelligibly as he totters around, a puffy coat threatening to topple beneath stubby legs.

A crowd of poorly clad people, several in wheelchairs, are making a ruckus on the two benches closest to the park building. At first I find their noise unnerving, but as I look I am subdued. Laughter and  loud shouts of joy carry around the fount.


My attention is drawn to a gangly boy walking along the rim of the fountain. His khakis are dirt-stained but he is clean. He stops after a while and turns around. Dad is right behind him, walking the rim of the fountain like a tight rope, and he continues forward. Dad's jeans have holes and his T-shirt is faded. There's a dog leash in his hand, on the end of which a shaggy brown dog trots beside him. "Dad, how are you balancing like that?" "Walter is helping me," Dad declares as he totters on the fountain rim and his son jumps into the empty bowl. They make it around the rim before a woman in a long coat sits on the edge of the fountain, talking to two men.

Across the fountain, the trio with the lady in the red coat sit in silence, each with a book in their lap. Heads are bowed identically in the sunlight.

Colin really can't resist following Dad, Walter, and Son around the fountain as they take off on a race. He giggles, tottering after until his mother calls him back. Dad walks around the people sitting on the edge, but then he is back on the fountain rim. Dad isn't young. His hair has grey flecks but his demeanor is youthful. He calls for his aged dog to hurry along as he races Son back to the starting point.

Son jumps into the bowl to get around the woman on the edge, and though she looks at him they do not speak as he passes her.

The ruckus by the building rises again as there is an animated discussion about a marriage. A woman in a leather jacket gets up to make a point and someone else takes her seat as the group reorganizes like a flock of geese squawking as they bumble past one another.

Mom and Sisters show up as Dad sits on the ground on the fountain, Walter on one side, Son on the other. "Boys only!" He insists as Sisters start talking simultaneously. Son and Sisters take off on a race. The woman with the long coat hesitantly gets up from her seat on the edge as the children jump in the bowl to go around her. But before long they are on foot, breaking their self-made rules as they race on level pavement to reach Mom, Dad, and Walter first.

There is some loud laughing debate about who has won and the woman in the long coat looks over with her two companions. There is a teasing note carried on the wind toward me and the three burst into mean laughter. I decide I don't like them. They are dressed in recycled clothes with unshaven faces and messy hair. In another place they may have been friends with Mom and Dad and Walter. There is no Burberry or Prada on Mom or Dad. Dad wears sunglasses and I suspect he doesn't quite feel his age, but his children, wife, and dog look happy. The three who laugh don't seem to share smiles of joy. Their humor is at someone else's expense. They are old enough to be parents, but I wonder what their occupations are: weekend busker? resident snob? smelly bar local?

Colin is racing himself in circles around the fountain now. I hear him scream "winnnninnnnng" as he passes.

Across from me the man and woman with the books rise. They say goodbye to the woman in the red jacket. I wonder where the brown paper bag went.

Dad Mom Walter Son and Sisters take their leave to get pizza. Quiet follows their absence and the woman in the long coat and her friends are happily seated on the edge of the fountain again. Now, with the exception of the noisy group by the building who are finding great amusement in regaling tales of "the guy you play chess with, yeah him, his wife," it is quiet. We all stay seated on our respective benches. A jogger passes through, and a richly dressed family with heels and Jersey accents walk through, but there are no permanent interruptions to our solitude. We can all sit in our cloud of hipster ignorance and continue believing our single, childless lives are deserving of this solitude.

Midwesonal

The boots sitting just within my closet must be stowed, the down jacket must be folded away and boxed up, and the the box of hat and gloves must be stored under the bed. Yesterday was the first day of spring. Not March 21, the vernal equinox when the world was cold and miserable, but yesterday when the sun was out and the thermostat said 80 (or 26 for you metric scalers). It was "a scorcher" and, like the pale-skinned Irish descendant I am, I managed a light pink sunburn. The whole city seemed more alive than it has been in months, as if like plants we were all just waiting for a little sunlight before we peeked our heads out from under piles of pea coats and began to photosynthesize.

What is it about the spring and summer that enlivens us so? One would never have guessed we were still deep in a recession yesterday. The outdoor patios were packed and even house pets were making their way to the restaurants for some conversation and appetizers. Why are we more inclined to head out when the weather is nice? Just because we can sit outside and drink to a din of revving engines, sirens, and tires hitting potholes? There is of course the simple explanation that the weather is, after all, nicer out but we're Midwesterners: blizzards can't keep us in. So why will first breezy day of summer draw us all out, to find a little spare change in our meager budgets and lavish our money on a table at the cafe?

I, like so many others, spent the weekend sitting out at the bars on Division, drinking beers and letting the sunlight defrost my frozen self. The sun seeped past my pale complexion and seemingly all the way into the part of my soul that has spent the last 4 months repeating: 2011 blows . Case in point, yesterday I had to wait 40 minutes outside for a bus, and I didn't even mind (rare occurrence!). I sat on a bench, reading, oblivious to everything except my own extreme contentment.

Life feels better today. Today we went grocery shopping and I was full of optimism. "I want to go to that cafe some time. Oh, and we should get sushi before you head to work sometime soon. We need to check out that French restaurant I was telling you about. Life is good. I can't wait for summer." These were unusual words from someone who spent the last three months informing people, "I'm not going out tonight. I'm tired," and dreading the summer months, when my pocketbook gets thin and consequently so do I.

I should move to California; perhaps my life would change and I would spend all my days sitting on the back porch reading, sipping lattes, and being perfectly content.

After all, I hate winter. I am incapable of heating my own body and spend the entire winter, from January-March, locked away under various blankets trying to convince either the cat or the boyfriend to come snuggle. I don't like going out even to a party in the cold, and this year I refused to clean my car for 6 months simply because I didn't want to spend that much time outside. I spent a weekend in Arizona this February, and though I didn't find Phoenix very much to my tastes, I also didn't want to leave. I had to return to a blizzard, and more shoveling myself out of parking spaces while lamenting the loss of each feather from my down jacket as one tiny iota less of heat. 

Now, summer is coming and everything is perfect. 

Yet, there is something about growing up in the Midwest that makes me indifferent to the seasons, in spite of my complete abhorrence of them. I would never dream of moving somewhere to stay warm. (For Heaven's sake I even went backpacking through Germany in November once- not exactly the Bahamas is it?) Top on the list of places I would like to move are Boston, New York, or Minneapolis. None of these cities have mild or temperate climates. I can in the same sentence I am complaining about the cold rave about wishing to move to Boston. What has life in the midwest done to warp my mind so I can't make this simple connection?

My thought patterns: Boston is North - North is cold - Cold is miserable- THEREFORE Boston will be a great place to live.

Is it because I am young and poor and too used to denying myself any pleasure? Is it because I dread the heat of an Arizona or Texas summer nearly as much as the cold of Chicago?

I do not believe there is any reason for my self-denial other than years of  enduring. I have lived with seasons all my life. And the truth is, I actually love the first snow, the wintery snuggliness, the cookies, the hot chocolate, the christmas decorations covered in a light dusting....if we could remove January, February, and March from the calendar perhaps life would be perfect. But then, where would be the joy in the first day of spring, and laying aside the boots and gloves? Perhaps the beauty is in the contrast, and the novelty of sun after so many months of cloud cover.

Converse Cat

I talk to my cat. Before you jump to any conclusions about the state of my sanity let me clear up any uncertainty on this point: the cat talks back. What he is saying may at times be a mystery, but more often than not our communication skills are adept.

For example, after a sneeze I will nearly always be greeted with a small clicking as the cat either says to me: "Bless you" or perhaps "There you go making that noise and waking me up from my nap again."

In the mornings I can be sure once my alarm is shut off a small black and white head will pop up along the side of the bed. Perhaps he'll get into bed with me or perhaps he'll wait until I get up, but the second I am on my feet there is a merciless whining that declares: "I want food and I may or may not want cuddling depending on how much food you put in my bowl. NOW."

While cleaning the room I will hear a small scamper and in bursts the cat with a soft rolling "brr," informing me: "I want to play" or perhaps in his mind: "I will destroy you."

Things get hairy when a loud yowl escapes him, and then I know to be on the lookout for the signs of a cat about to mark his territory. I will allow us this miscommunication on the basis of gender: I know nothing of these masculine urges to stake claim by administering uncanny amounts of cologne or refusing to use deodorant. Ultimately, spreading one's scent  (good or bad) all over my things. Here, our communication skills disintegrate.

Gender issues aside, I greatly value our conversations. We may be at an impasse as to the actual ownership of the things within my home and how they should smell but he nevertheless provides me the most reliable companion. There is always a familiar face at the door and there is always a companion sharing my space. There is entertainment in the unexpected whims of a feline who believes that ferrot rocher wrappers and soy milk tops MUST be chased under the couch. And there is someone who just wants to be loved. We may define love differently and we may offer it in different ways but we share in our deepest desires: we need each other. He needs someone to throw the ball and open the door to the patio, and I need someone to greet me in the mornings and follow me from room to room . He needs me to open the lid to the peanut butter and I need him to nap beside me while I read. Most importantly, we need each other's conversation. I need to hear him say "welcome home" and he needs to hear me say "dinner time."