Tag Archives: Rachael O. Phillips

Help for Gardening Addicts

Gardening addicts. Never leave them alone at a garden center or nursery, where obliging, devious personnel help them take out a second mortgage to buy the last bougainvillea. This, though the tropical lovelies prefer Argentina over Indiana.

Younger junkies fall victim to buying binges after watching HGTV. However, gardening addiction does its worst damage in women of a certain age.

They should know better than to trust this mad urge to nurture. Most spent decades caring for little humans. They’ve repressed memories of endless feedings — and the waterings with which baby sprouts responded. These women dealt daily with mountains of fertilizer. Eventually wising up, they limited the number of nurturees they’d cultivate.

However, spring gardening regenerates the madness. While spouses are playing golf, the women load up with 35 flats of annuals, 37 bags of potting soil and barrels of pansies, adding just one more hanging basket here. Another there. How can they ignore wilted tomato seedlings? With their TLC, the weaklings will flourish.

Addicts.

With symptoms listed below, I hope to alert family and friends of this malady.

Signs of Gardening Addiction

Early Level

Switching from a regular cart to one the size of a brontosaurus.
Bragging to strangers about how many green beans she grew last year.
Fibbing about extra trips to garden centers.
Claiming kids/grandkids are responsible for dirt in the car.

Second Level

Bragging to strangers about how many zucchinis they forced on friends last year.
Buying seeds by the pound on the Internet.
Claiming proud ownership of 234 flowerpots stacked in the garage.
Delighting in the $1,000 tiller her husband gave her for their anniversary.

Okay, so I filled the brontosaurus-sized cart. If Hubby hadn’t been present, I might have filled five.

Third Level

Hijacking a brontosaurus cart at gunpoint.
Shoplifting bags of manure.
Buying seeds by the barrel.
Claiming proud ownership of 9,781 flowerpots stacked in the garage.
Organizing neighborhood kids for a dandelion-blowing party at a rival’s gardens.

Final Level

Buying an authentic Sweet Juliet Rose. The original plant sold for $15.8 million.

I am proud to inform readers, as well as my spouse, that today, I didn’t brag to a single stranger about green beans or zucchini. I bypassed needy tomato seedlings. I kept my regular cart and made a single purchase.

“Only one?” Hubby blinks in disbelief.

“Only one,” I assure him.

“A rosebush.”

These plants just had to go home with me. Who could resist?

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you a gardening addict?

Classic Post: Cleaning Confrontation

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This post first appeared on August 12, 2020.

Who wants to clean out a refrigerator and chest freezer?

Blown light bulbs conveniently have kept me in the dark about their sad state. I grabbed food, slamming doors before tentacles could yank me inside.

But the garden soon will produce, I can’t feed my veggies to whatever life forms lurk there.

Confrontation time.

I need hot water and rubber gloves. Body armor. Samurai sword. Hey, past-expiration-by-a-decade cottage cheese grows testy when evicted.

Hubby’s grandma sewed this apron that gives me courage to clean out our refrigerator and freezer.

I cover body armor with an apron. This secret weapon of all women in 1950s TV sitcoms empowered June Cleaver to do housework while wearing high heels and pearls. It will grant me added protection.

Besides, Hubby’s grandma sewed this apron. She fought a fierce, lifelong war against dirt and germs. Her spirit urges me to be strong.

Hubby’s grandma waged war against grime.

Grabbing my sword, I crack the fridge’s door.

Nothing.

I throw it open.

Ack! Lavender salad dressing. Pudding that resembles petri dishes. Mashed potatoes that give a whole new meaning to “green vegetable.”

Did something just . . . move?

Slamming it shut, I venture into the garage, where the freezer resides. I open it. No tentacles.

I summon Golden Oldies to inspire me.

“Mission Impossible”?

So much for inspiration.

My Cold War almost morphs into peaceful coexistence when the song changes to “One-Eyed, One-Horned, Flying, Purple People Eater.” Will Hubby find nothing left but my eyeglasses and defrosted food?

Thankfully, the Star Wars theme erupts. Retying my mighty apron, I plunge into the freezer’s alternative universe. Amorphous packages, their age detectable only by carbon dating, evoke questions:

Why did I shred four dozen bags of zucchini? Hubby hates zucchini bread, and I probably shouldn’t eat 50 pounds.

Did this tuna casserole preexist with God in the beginning?

Do holiday turkeys grow exponential sets of giblets?

Moving to “You’re No Good,” I toss out piles of mystery food. I use endless elbow “Grease,” then graduate to “Splish Splash,” reveling in unfamiliar spotlessness.

I saved giblets for a game of H-O-R-S-E, shooting them into trash cans in the driveway.

Oops. I hit a garbage guy.

My apology had better be good. I really want him to haul my melting mess away.

Fortunately, he only wants to flee. Cans are dumped in haste. The truck roars off to “Hey, hey, hey, goodbye. …”

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you make housework fun?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: Waiting for That Coffee Date

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O Lord, I miss those klatches You and I shared with Mom — spiritual, wise, funny, even crazy times. Someday, we’ll do it again, with no clocks to mess with our togetherness. (Knowing Mom, though, the coffee won’t be decaf.)

Classic Post: Pillow Power

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This post first appeared on February 7, 2018.

They soften woes, absorb frustrations without complaint and support us.

Our mothers?

No, our pillows.

I’d sleep with a dozen, but my spouse considers extras speed bumps in the night. So, I heap dozens of decorative pillows on our bed. When Hubby makes it, he sometimes forgets the universe will implode if the green pillow’s placed in the middle rather than the white.

Fear not. I continue to rescue the cosmos.

I also help him regarding sofa cushions. Our geometric pillow must always be matched with the sage green cushion. Never the red.

No one should desecrate them with actual use. Both Hubby and grand-dog must understand that only the aged, ameba-shaped cushion, stashed under a throw, is reserved for naps.

“OC, aren’t you?” chorus a hundred voices.

Sure, I hear voices. That doesn’t negate my point, which is: pillow power.

We must respect a product that upsets an entire continent. Australian health alerts demand pillows be replaced every two years or frozen to kill dust mites. One manufacturer even conducted a free pillow exchange.

Pillows can exert power in positive ways, e.g., the OSTRICHPILLOW^®. The owner inserts his head into a soft, closed tube on his desk. Supposedly, a 20-minute nap using the OSTRICHPILLOW^® increases work productivity 37 percent.

Any nap might accomplish this. Still, who am I to deny the combined force of capitalism and catnap?

However, pillows cause complications. Sleepers lose hours of rest, constantly awakening to refresh their pillows. For only $100, a sufferer can buy one filled with cool gel that reshapes itself. He should, however, take care not to drop it on his toe. It weighs 14 pounds.

Or, for only $400, one can purchase an intelliPillow. Why so expensive? Because its name starts with a lowercase letter, with a capital in the middle. It also uses an air compressor for automatic adjustment.

Ultimate power, however, is evidenced in the classic pillow fight. Taking this ancient concept to a higher level, devotees use pillows shaped like scimitars, battle axes and hand grenades.

Airline cushions sufficed, however, for passengers on one economy flight who took out lack-of-leg-room frustrations in a mass pillow fight.

Perhaps if world leaders engaged in a day-long pillow fight, we all might sleep better at night.

A powerful idea.

As long as they don’t use my sofa cushions.

I’m not the only one who likes lots of pillows!

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you picky about your pillows?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: We Don’t Have to Share One Bathroom Now

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O Lord, You know that when we were kids, I didn’t always thank you for my siblings. I’m sure they didn’t thank You for me, either! But OMG, what a rare blessing to get together now!

Those Calendar Challenges

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Glumly, my spouse and I agree on a date-and-time powwow. We discuss emailed lists of seven grandchildren’s end-of-year activities. We summon our calendars, determined to organize our world and theirs.

Right.

How can we attend a middle school concert, high school track meet and a graduation the same day 250 miles apart?

Lots of T-ball games are on our calendar this spring.

If only science would concentrate less on the ice caps and focus on beaming us to Timmy’s T-ball game on time.

We also review dates for Hubby’s end-of-semester grading and my writing projects. Can we mow the grass monthly and plant our garden before September?

Gaaa!

Woody Allen, expanding on a Yiddish proverb, said, “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him about your plans.”

My parents, who were pastors, believed God’s plans rarely matched ours. Why bother with calendars? Even trips for groceries or car repair were interrupted by “divine appointments” with hurting — and annoying, I thought — people. Especially if I’d planned for us to go swimming.

My parents were more interested in God’s planner than theirs.

My dad disliked calendars not only for spiritual reasons, but because he hated whatever cramped his style. My mother, like an unpaid air traffic controller, organized five children’s piano lessons, sports practices and work schedules in her head — along with all church events.

Until I met my future husband, I considered that normal. At his house, however, an unobtrusive calendar with notations of who, what, when and where possessed a Clark Kent superpower: it ran four lives.

Yet, my naïve love and I envisioned harmonious life together. We did show up the same day for our wedding. But how have Hubby and I met additional calendar challenges?

First, beneath Hubby’s conventional exterior dwelt an adventurous spirit. He married me, didn’t he? Second, his career as a country doctor trashed predictability. Babies held zero respect for plans to eat and sleep. People in pain rarely followed office schedules.

Serving on a church staff and running my own launch-’em-and-land-’em household, I began to appreciate calendars. Mom memorized hers, but to be there for the people I loved, I needed a for-real calendar.

Hubby and I still want to be there for family, church and community. What if our calendars — and our lives — showed nothing but white space? Blank evidence that we cared for no one, and no one cared for us?

We’d rather learn to laugh with God.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you a calendar fan?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: You’re Stubborn Like That

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OMG, when our world tries to stamp out everything beautiful, I’m thankful You aren’t a quitter. You never stop recreating it!

First Bike Ride of Spring

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Our early tandem rides always challenge my husband and me. We huff and puff and yell at each other to keep pedaling — and that’s just to leave the driveway.

Our winter weights slow us. Dogs that normally would pursue us might not bother: I’d get more challenge out of chasing a parked car.

The bikes are in good shape, though, as Hubby’s serviced them. Fired up his cyclocomputer that records mileage, speed, and number of bugs swallowed.

Cyclists face risks. The above-mentioned dogs might reconsider and supplement their diets with ankles. Some drivers consider bikes figments of their imagination. Occasionally, a crazed farmer attempts to flatten us with his tractor. Why? Maybe his girlfriend, Daisy, dumped him, and he has hated bicycles built for two ever since.

Twenty years of tandem riding, and we’re still married.

Still, Hubby and I take to the road.

With him in captain position (front seat) and me as stoker, we pedal away. Hubby, who once participated in 100-mile rides, supplies most of the power. He also steers, changes gears and brakes. He does maintenance and records our data.

Me? I make hand signals. Correctly, most of the time. Impressed? Hey, I fill water bottles too.

As we pedal along country roads, landscape changes become evident. A new house has sprouted. Somebody blacktopped their gravel driveway. One homeowner has planted peach-colored geraniums instead of his usual red ones.

Sometimes a little encouragement from friends keeps us going.

“Great to ride again,” I yell to Hubby.

He nods, mostly to keep bug-swallowing statistics low.

After several miles, though, the bicycle seats become a pain in the butt. A month must pass before our muscles adjust — or total numbness sets in.

Plus, sunshine fooled us. We ignored the wind’s gleeful gusts. At the beginning, Hubby said we might set new speed records for a first effort. With the west wind behind us, we might eat lunch in Pittsburgh.

Then we turned.

With the crosswind, our bike almost flew to Pittsburgh.

Still, the last gasping miles couldn’t detract from a river’s flowing green loveliness as we crossed the bridge. From intoxicating fragrances of early lilacs. From bunches of redbuds along the road as if God had tossed bouquets to us.

This road near my house goes by a different name, but I call it Redbud Row.

Why should He do that? It’s not like we created all this beauty.

But we’ll take it, giving thanks on this first bike ride of spring.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your favorite spring outdoor activity?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: Vive la Différence!

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Father, You know that for the 11,327^th time, I cracked the patio door because I love fresh air. Hubby shivered. “Do you really want that door open?” How have we stayed married 48 years? OMG, You’re right. A lot of love flows straight from You to and through us.

Plus, we’ve learned to go with more/less layers.

Classic Post: Springtime in the Trailer Park

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This post first appeared on April 25, 2018.

Image by Stefan Schweihofer from Pixabay.

On frozen days like today, I want to press my nose against the window pane, spread my fingers and push winter away, as I attempted when a preschooler, living in the trailer park.

When spring showed up for real, our mother would no longer imprison my four-year-old brother and me in snowsuits. She’d stop slathering us with Vicks^® VapoRub^®. She’d let us go outside.

A little later, my sister, brother and I (pictured with my mom) all shared a for-real bedroom in a bigger trailer.

We didn’t dislike the tiny yellow trailer we called home. The kitchenette smelled like bubbling bean soup and love. Our play area: the closet-sized living room. We slept on the sofa, Ned at one end, and I at the other. Long before ESPN’s kickboxing competitions, we conducted world-class foot fights at bedtime — until the Head Referee called emphatic fouls on us both.

Finally, a hundred robins outside sounded an all-clear. Before sending us outdoors, Mom drilled us: Thou shalt not play around the railroad tracks. Thou shalt look both ways before crossing the drive to the playground. Thou shalt never speak to strangers. But the First Commandment eclipsed them all: Thou shalt not shed thy jacket.

Fully catechized, Ned and I darted to freedom. We stopped and looked both ways before splashing across the gravel road that circled the playground, the center of the trailer court and our world.

Paradise awaited, with a clangy old merry-go-round that spun us into an ecstasy of nausea. Ned and his buddies defied God, gravity and their mothers, walking the teeter-totters instead of sitting. Kathy and I soared on swings, singing Perry Como’s hit, “Catch a Falling Star,” as we touched heaven with our toes. Sometimes, we all simply galloped like a wild-pony herd around the playground.

As suppertime approached, Ned and I picked up dandelions like golden coins to take to Mommy. When Daddy’s old blue Chevy turned into the drive, we raced toward it. Daddy stopped and threw the back door open. Ned and I rode home, waving to friends as if in a parade.

Eating soup and johnnycakes, we fought sagging eyelids like an enemy. We wanted to watch Rawhide, with our favorite cowboy, Rowdy (a very young Clint Eastwood). I wanted to sit on Daddy’s shoulders, eat popcorn and comb his wavy, Elvis-black hair. But it had been such a long, wonderful … spring … day … zzzz.

What do you mean, fall asleep? Not me! It’s springtime! That lazy, good-for-nothing sun has finally shown up. I’ve got more to-do items on my list than candles on my last birthday cake: garage to clean, closets to organize. Plus, a new book to write …

But first, I’m going out to play.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What childhood spring memories warm your mind?