Last night…
The cicadas are speaking now
rhythmic secret concentric circular
conversing. I interrupt their song
with my listening. Suddenly
they stop. And I wonder
how I never noticed their quiet
before. I did not hear
how loud their silence.
The next day …
becomes night, and hours pass
in my inattention, till I am still
and hear past the window
a sole cicada
whose call rings the night
like an empty womb.
It was curious to me that a creature that previously took little interest in me would suddenly swarm to me like my blood was manna. I’d suspected, and read, that mosquitoes are partial to particular blood. And, based on my experience, whatever the magic ingredient, my lifejuice lacked it. So, it was striking to me that I was attacked the other afternoon by these ankle (and etc.) biters. So much so that I posted about it to see if others concurred that Culicidae (yes, I looked it up) dinner parties are on the rise in Zone 7b. Reveler Ralph, a frequent commenter (thank you, btw!) noted that his experience may be skewed from the fact that he gardens primarily on a deck. He nonetheless offered several helpful pieces of advice, including throwing off mosquitoes’ scent trackers (which is what traditional OTC products are supposed to do) by using chemical-free natural soaps made of lemon or spearmint (or just rub spearmint right on the skin and wear it under your hat — an excellent idea, which puts mint on the list for next year’s garden). Once bitten, twice iodine, according to our fellow reveler. (Note to self: pull iodine out of the emergency kit in the basement; the emergency has arrived). Check out more detailed suggestions in the comments to “The Perils of Gardening.”
As it turns out, however, I am no more attractive to skeetos than I was to various 7th grade crushes when I sported a back brace, glasses and an overbite. I am fairly certain of this because, after getting all worked up and posting on the bevy of bites across my lower body, I braved the elements again to finish staking the plethora of tomato plants out back (the story of how my garden became a tomato refuge described in “The Perils of Overgardening”). The next thing I knew, I was feeling the strange itchiness that accompanied the first attack. (I had chalked this up to the sheer number of bites I had, but apparently it was indicative of something more). Oddly, this sensation seemed to come from the inside out, like I could feel it traveling just beneath the surface of my skin. This time, I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, full pants, and rubber gloves to avoid a repeat of the earlier assault. Suddenly, it struck me. I ran inside and looked at my face to see the same welts as before. This time, they were encircled with a ruddy reddish shadiness to the skin around them, and spotted my forehead, chin and neck. They behaved the same way the earlier “bites” did: very pronounced at first and gradually fading in color and sensation until they were barely noticeable at all. I had assumed this rapid disappearance was the result of my swift diligence with a plantain leaf.
Checking out my new war wounds in the mirror, I recalled the time I was 9 and we were painting a shed in the woods behind my house. At some point, my body became fully covered with hives. A bottle of calamine lotion later, and I was fine. I do not know why I didn’t recognize that feeling sooner. It is a distinct feeling, and I was beginning to get it while I was in the garden. Like there was the presence near of something that doesn’t mesh so well your aura. Maybe the 20 (or so) year gap in time made me forget what an allergic reaction feels like. But I was acutely reminded last night.
Now, I suppose I should get to work on figuring out what was the cause of my body’s dramatic response to this presence. A quick Google search and a scan of the corner of the garden I was working in suggests it may be the milkweed. It’s always possible, but unlikely, it’s those weedy morning glories I fight back nearly daily. (Unlikely because we’ve been battling since my occupancy here began). I have a creeping suspicion it’s a tomato plant, but I dearly sincerely hope not. Once again, the perils of overgardening are upon us…
Is it just me or are the mosquitoes particularly rampant this year? I was outside today, weeding the garden from 4:30 to 5:00, and was well awash in Off, but it was no deterrent to the little demons. I came out of the garden with a bucketful of weeds and half my body covered in bites. According to my partner, they have “mosquitocation,” and tell each other when and where to find fresh blood. They have also, it seems, drifted down lower on the anatomy. Despite the fact I was leaning down, with my arms well within their reach, I don’t have a spot on my upper body. Maybe they are getting smarter and sense that arms are attached to hands, which with the power of the third sister Fate can swat the life out of you.
The only thing cut short was my gardening today. I fled to the front yard to gather up some plantain to treat myself as quick as I could. As I was plucking the plantain leaves, I saw my next-door neighbor who mentioned his mosquitoes are so bad, he won’t even go out back. They must be aware of this, for they’ve migrated to my side.
QUESTION: how’s the mosquito population in your ecosystem this year? Have you had any luck with products or approaches to keep them at bay? I’m not crazy about using products that smell like they don’t belong on human skin. Can anyone recommend some good natural products or, better yet, something that might be already available in the garden? Also share any effective treatments once you’ve already been affected. I’ve found plantain leaves to work well but if you have a bunch of bites like I do today, it’s hard to get them covered quickly, especially since the treatment is most effective within the first few minutes of getting a bite. (I typically just crinkle them up, and rub the juice on the bites).
So, any suggestions to combat this year’s most pesky pest? Go ahead, gimme the dirt!
What I wanted to get:
What I did get:
Forty-five tomato plants. Count ’em. 45! And, despite the sound of it, I am not proud of that. With a piece of property with a 25 x 60 back lot, that’s a lotta tomatas. I was talking to my friend with property (serious property) in Mississippi, and she was up to her neck in tomatoes she had to can. She said she had 60 plants, and tomatoes were coming out of her ears. Although I promised to simplify (if not downsize) my gardening habit this season, the truth is I’m just a junkie. That, and I completely underestimated my ability to save seeds that would ever amount to anything. I read the instructions, and generally followed them, taking seeds from my tomatoes last year, putting them along with some of the tomato pulp and water in baby food jars on on the windowsill (and, when I was following directions, in the basement). I covered them with paper towels and rubber bands until the seeds got all moldy and yucky, then I scooped out the mold and guck, rinsed the seeds, then let them air dry on paper towel covered plates. I was surprised how very many seeds I was able to save this way. But in the mindset of a typical novice gardener, I never imagined that one seed would equal one plant (I feel like a teenager thinking you can’t get pregnant if you have sex just once and we all know where that leads).
Even though it’s obviously illogical now, somewhere in my mind I must have been thinking that I wouldn’t possibly end up with plants from the seeds I saved. I was sure that, somehow, I would fail. Maybe it was the votes of no confidence coming from outside my own self-doubt. Most public seed saver exchanges require their participants to have at least a year of seed saving experience under their belts. Since I wouldn’t be trading them online, I organized a fun, but intimate seed saver exchange with fellow blogger/gardener/revelers last fall (calling it, ambitiously, the Best BK Seed Exchange Ever … or something equally obnoxious). And though I was able to unload some of the seeds there (sheepishly sharing them, since I had no belief that they would ever become anything but the lifeless pebbles they appeared to be), I ended up with more than I brought to the party. As for the extra I had on hand from my own obsessive seed saving last summer, I threw several seed packets in with Christmas gifts and the occasional birthday card. Others I tucked away with random greetings and how-are-you-doing-IhavetoomanyseedsIambeggingyoutotaketheseoffmyhands “care packages.” Word from my mother is that New York-origin seeds winter-sown in Wisconsin (I have a sister whose punctuality extends to her garden) have been producing bountiful fruit under the watchful eyes of my nieces and nephew. But even with all those channels of seed distribution, I still had seeds coming out my ears.
I knew I wasn’t going to be able to winter-sow my seeds, and thought that, at best, maybe I would get some plants going early indoors. But March and April flew by and I still don’t know where they went. Then May came and it was on the top of my list to get the seeds in some soil. Finally by late May, I had to get something in the ground, or I was looking at not having anything more than a measly container herb garden (not that there’s anything wrong with herbs or container gardens, just that I couldn’t shake that first delicious taste of backyard-grown tomatoes that I had last summer). So, against my earlier protestations that all my tomatoes would come from seeds I sowed myself, I broke down and bought two tomato plants at a fundraising plant sale held nearby and threw them in the ground before I ended up without any tomato plants at all. (And, since tomatoes were a staple in my garden last year with the four plants I bought from a farmer in Saratoga Springs, I feared not having much of a garden at all). They shot right up and now there are tomato-heavy Martha Washington and what I thought was Dr. Wyche plants going wild in my backyard. The Dr. Wyche is definitely not Dr. Wyche; it is way more interesting and beautiful (no offense, doc). Any guesses on what variety it could be?
Apparently not a Dr. Wyche
Before I gave up for the season, though, I decided just to see what would happen if I tried to sow just a handful of the seeds I saved from my four tomato plants last year. When I was at Shannon’s picking up some potting soil, the guy looked at me like I was nuts. He asked why I didn’t just buy some tomato plants. I explained that I already had tomato plants but I had saved these seeds from last year, and…. never mind. I didn’t know why I had to justify my gardening habits to this guy. So off I went and proceeded to plant more than a handful of seeds. I thought I’d up my chances of getting at least a plant or two. Little did I expect that every seed I planted would actually produce a plant. I carefully labeled all of the plants because some of the seeds I had bleached and soaked before planting and some I just popped right in the soil.
Next thing I knew I had more tomatoes than I knew what to do with, but only two plants in the ground that looked like they were far enough along to give me any tomatoes this season. Then, the unthinkable happened. Aimee, over at Red Garden Clogs, told me that she had some tomato plants that were just going to be tossed if they didn’t get in the ground, and did I want them. I was thinking this might be one or two plants, which could be easily accommodated. And, I thought, if one or two of my seedlings got big enough, I might try putting it in the ground and then I might have about six plants to last year’s four, which was a reasonable increase. I was a hungry kid in a candy store with eyes much bigger than my garden when I got to Aimee’s. I left with at least five tomato plants, including Cherokee Purple, Black Krim, and the two I’m most excited about: Jaune flamme (from seeds that meemsnyc from Gardening in the Boroughs of NYC brought to the Big BK Seed Etc. Exchange last fall), and Paul Robeson tomatoes.
But it doesn’t stop there. I have discovered tomatoes growing spontaneously in the flower pot near my front door, and also in a potted rose bush. Every so often, as I’m traipsing my small grounds, I’ll notice a tomato plant with little baby fruit popping out, and only vaguely remember getting them in the ground. On good days, I’m glad they’re all there, and I silently calculate how soon I’ll have to brush off the canning skills I picked up at a trial class from Red Garden Clogs (btw, invaluable!). Other times, as I’m ripping away the out of control choke weed that has climbed over my neighbor’s fence (she is out of the country for the summer but would normally be a good neighbor and hack it away for me), I wonder what in the heck I was thinking, putting all the plants in the ground.
Moral of the story: have confidence that what you sow will grow. Just know what you’re going to do with it when it does.
Over-watering is one of the most common gardening errors. Not only is it unnecessary to pour large doses of water on in-ground plants, but it also hurts the environment to water in-ground plants frequently. Survival of the fittest plants produce the most useful produce. Therefore, if you have a plant or two requiring lots of time and attention, it is okay (and good in fact!) to let it go. Yank that whiny, pesky plant up out of the ground and toss it into the compost pile, where it will be put to good use. I have had several tomatoes (I started late but they are starting to come up), but I am not yet harvesting the seeds because these tomatoes are not totally satisfactory. Some have had a bit of blight (nothing serious), or they were not pickably ripe for very long. Since I do not want these traits next year, I’m not bothering to save the seeds of those particular plants this year. If I have learned anything so far this season, it is that I can save seeds and expect something to grow from them, and that I do not need to save every seed. I may soon be overrun with tomatoes. My problems could be worse. I don’t mind the burden of abundance. However, any of my plants that can’t stand the heat will have to be allowed to transition to the other side. I am not a primping, preening, prompting gardener. I admittedly want to put in as little effort as possible for the greatest harvest, and simply enjoy sinking my hands in the dirt to see what comes back up.
On the question of watering, remember that even house plants and potted plants are easily over-watered. Use a gentle touch with them. Do not doused or drown them. Keep in mind that drowning is what happens when you give your plants too much water: you seal off the root ends which need to be open to receive nutrients from the soil. Think of all the trouble you went to putting broken pieces of clay pots and other spacers for the roots to “breathe.” Filling the root ends full of water defeats the purpose of creating pathways for the plant’s lifelines. There is great variation in the amount of water plants need. Fortunately for us, however, some of the signs they’re getting too much water are often the same plant to plant. The following are a few such indicators.
SIGNS YOU MAY BE OVER-WATERING:
1. drooping leaves all around and general wilted appearance
2. browning of young leaves
3. existing leaves turn yellow (or a shade lighter than their natural color), and wilt
4. the plant stops growing new leaves
5. the soil itself may have a greenish hue (this may be algae)
If your plants are showing these signs, take a break from watering for a few days, and see how they respond. When you do water, as a general rule, it’s a good idea to check moisture at least an inch or two beneath the surface of the soil, since looks can be deceiving. Some soil gets dry quickly on top but is masking saturated soil beneath.
QUESTION: do you remember the first time you watered a plant? picked a flower? became aware of the interdependence of people and plants? Go ahead … gimme the dirt.
Hi all, please check out the “blogs I like” list below. I added Jason Akers, the Self Sufficient Gardener, whose philosophy and approach to gardening is harmonious with mine (although his experience far exceeds my own). If you have particular gardening questions, I recommend checking out the site. His approach tends to be low-maintenance, non-fussy gardening. Please check out his site, and help support his efforts. He has done a lot to get others comfortable with gardening, from participating in community events in Kentucky (and beyond) to preach the pesticide-free approach to providing a forum for fellow gardeners everywhere to get specific questions answered. He also welcomes called in questions to feature on his pod cast — give him a call, and you might hear yourself on his show.
Also added to the RSS feed is a site featuring the work of my favorite contemporary (and rural) artist, Dave Lundahl. He has been doing cutting-edge art-ography (check out the site, and you’ll “see” what I mean) for many years. Enjoy his work, and check out more about Dave’s innovative and inspiring work at The Art of the Rural (a blog on rural arts and culture in America), Sugar Magnolia (a blog on photography, mommying, cooking, and living), the New Light Studios site (this is the artist’s website, maintained by friends and fans, since Dave, himself, is even more of a Luddite than me – although I have been changing my ways of late), and the Facebook page. Dave, too, is a revel gardener, and has provided many gifts from his art and garden. They have always been welcome visitors on my return trip to NY from WI, except for a time several years ago when one of his gifts almost got me detained by airport security. After clearing the metal detector, I watched with curiosity, wondering who around me had such interesting wares that TSA officers were huddled around the screen, whispering to each other. To my surprise, I got pulled aside and interrogated about what was in my bag. I had no idea there would be anything of interest, and it crossed my mind that someone had slipped something surreptitiously into my suitcase. Finally, a gloved officer very carefully dragged my bag out, whisking it away to a secure area and, with nearly comic caution, pulled out an enormous cucumber, plucked fresh that morning from Dave’s garden. It was a nice, big, plump one. It may have been around the time they started limiting liquids, and this one exceeded the limit. Either way, the takeaway: careful what fruit you fly with. Cucimus sativus is not an easy travel companion.
The link to Dave Lundahl’s art here seems particularly fitting because the sun is crucial for his creations. While items grown in the garden might not all be masterpieces (check out my recent sunflower failure, in the comments section to Patience is an Amalgam), a lesson we can take away is that art is process, and process is art. And every garden is a process. To this revel gardener’s eye, the garden, too, is often art. (Check out my recent post on the NY Botanical Garden’s exhibit inspired by Monet’s garden at Giverny).
QUESTION: what are some of your favorite blogs, gardeners, artists? Check out these sites, and let me know what you think. What’s your strangest travel story? Have you ever been stopped for flying with juicy fruit? Live plants? Stowaway garden goodies? Go ahead … gimme the dirt!
These words came to me tonight. The sound of them came, and the meaning is still flittering its way in. I think it has to do with the expression and experience of patience coming in many forms, and that some combination and piecing together of them is what makes patience happen and work. Patience is a tool as crucial as hands to the gardener. I am piecing mine together. In time, in time.
Please don’t mind my absence/break. I have been busy with the garden (lots of tomatoes, a bunch of herbs, and a few random plants – peppers, cukes, eggplant, etc.) as well as work and other things. I considered posting a sign stating “OUT TENDING GARDEN,” but then I realized it might be quicker and easier to pop back in just and only when I was ready. Please know that I enjoy your comments and am happy to hear your news, even if I don’t get back right away. It encourages me, and I learn so much from them. Please keep them coming.
I hope you all are having beautiful and bountiful gardening days. Please let me know what’s growing your way. Go ahead … gimme the dirt.
I took my dog out tonight earlier than usual. In part it was because if I waited much longer I knew I would become one with the couch. Also because this heat has gotten me so exhausted that I know that my life and livelihood needs me to be getting more sleep. So earlier to rise is (hopefully) on the horizon. It’s a different vibe going out just an hour or two earlier. Even though there weren’t a lot of people out and about tonight, there was a handful. And while there were not many milling about, there was a sense of activity in houses that usually are quiet and sleeping by the time I pass by. I didn’t feel as free to examine their yards the way I usually will stop and study how a rose is supported in one neighbor’s yard or what’s in the freshly spread mulch in another’s. I got quickly into the zone, though, and my dog and I were right in step. I struggled with her when I first got her. She always pulled when we walked, and was too antsy. Over time, we’ve settled into this, though, and I’ve only realized in recent weeks what a mediation it is to spend this brief, and usually daily, jaunt with her.
As we were rounding the corner to almost our block, not too far from the subway station, I saw a man and a woman crossing the street. Maybe they were from Bangladesh, maybe Pakistan. She was in a traditional sari. He, I don’t remember. I couldn’t tell whether he was child or husband, but I sensed almost immediately that there was discord. In the middle of crossing the street, with me and my dog just about ten or so feet behind them, he dropped three bags on the ground. I could tell from their shape they were shoe boxes. She barely hesitated, and kept right on walking. Flip, click, flip, in sandals that neither hurried up nor slowed down. I almost asked if he wanted help picking them up. It crossed my mind how I commit to wishing fellow elevator dwellers a good day when it’s just down to the two of us. Then something stopped me. I crossed off to the side and kept walking. Sometimes it’s better to have to stand alone in the evidence of your anger.
I walked the rest of the block home. We passed by the first sunflower of the year I’ve seen. I noticed the hydrangeas, which this year have been more full and color-bursting — like they had been dusted with magic pigment — than I’ve ever seen them, showing just the hint of receding, withdrawing to take their seasons’ rest. I wondered if it’s too late to plant some sunflowers. They just make me so damn happy when I see them.
I wondered at my lack of anger as of late. It’s like it’s just an emotion that’s deserted me, and that feels so alien when I encounter it. I understand being annoyed. There are many things I disagree with — ineffective or ineffectual methods and approaches that get my goat. But nothing really ‘burns me up’ lately. I wonder if it’s the heat. I wonder if I can take some credit for the wisdom to move away from sources of those things. I wonder if I’m just lucky right now, and should not spend too much time thinking about it because certainly something will come along that will boil my blood.
I walked up the stairs of my front porch and went to get my key. My mother is visiting. The door was unlocked. I thought she was locking it behind me. She left it unlocked. That could have been quite dangerous. I open the door. Every light is on. That is expensive. It is warm. She is coming in the back door, and has just had a cigarette. I tried very hard before I finally quit, after more than twenty years a smoker. The temperature starts to rise. I kick off my shoes, and come upstairs to write. It’s not really such a big deal, after all. She very well may be my favorite person on earth. And our time here is short.
But she did just come to tell me the fan was on too high, and to micromanage though she really has no clue she does it. “I’ll be right down,…” “Oh, no, don’t feel like you have to,” she starts to tell me. She is not understanding my tone. “I’ll be right down, Mom,” I say with enough strain in my voice that she understands the message (“please get out right now. Leave me alone. You have just walked into my space uninvited and told me how to do something differently I have not asked you about. I love you but sometimes you drive me crazy. Maybe you even make me angry”). Bah, in a minute I’ll be down there with her enjoying a glass of wine and sitting again in the moment of “our time here is short.” I guess anger has its place and purpose. It’s as much about how it’s expressed as it is how it’s felt. I’m just not crazy about either.
I know I’ve mentioned it before, but I woke up this morning thinking again about the importance of clearing clutter. This is true in our gardens as much as our lives. Then I read this. It brought yet another dimension to the benefits of removing the things that no longer serve us. The way another friend put it was to walk away from the things that no longer serve us, grow us or help us. I remember hearing one interior designer say that everything she owned had to serve at least one of two purposes: it had to be either beautiful or useful. I was out in the garden fairly late into the evening last night, after a rain. I’d had some marigolds to accompany the tomato plants but didn’t have time to put them in the ground earlier. So I squished around with my rubber boots in the mud and got the eight of them in the ground. Now that everything is pretty much in and where it’s going to be (but never say never — I seem to always find a spot that needs a pot or a pot that needs a resident), my focus now will be to clear away the clutter from my garden. I do have lots of seeds and tools that I’m not using.
I think it’s easy for gardeners in particular to hold onto the things we don’t really want or need because there is always another season. My friend, the clutter buster, though, would remind me that when you clear space, you make room for something new and better to come into your life.
QUESTION: What have you had a hard time clearing from your collection of garden supplies? What do you save and what do you toss year to year? What are you on the fence about letting go of?
Go ahead … gimme the dirt!
We passed by her, and it was almost a comical sight. It really looked like someone had set her out just as a casual means to be rid of her. Like maybe she was the mother-in-law, and the husband had promised his wife he would take dear old mother out for a walk, in 90+ degree weather. But it was night, and it was dark, so it was cool enough for her to get out of the house, right? We drove by and as we did, the image didn’t seem so funny. She sat alone, about 20 feet from the corner of the block in Park Slope, hunched over in one of those seat-walkers with wheels. I thought about me and my crew parking our minivan and tromping into our house just ten minutes away. I asked my partner to turn back. When I got out and approached her, I thought for sure the old lady would tell us her kids were just around the corner, or had run in to drop something off in the building across the street. She waved in the direction of the grocery store and mumbled something about “over there.” It wasn’t long that I was able to figure out that there was nothing waiting at the bodega for her but a carton of milk and some paper towels. Teresa was alone. She had gotten herself to the corner but couldn’t go any further. I asked her if she wanted water and she said yes. All I had in the van was a mostly empty plastic cup of water with lid and straw that I had gotten earlier in the day from the Green Fig. Most people would turn up their nose at drinking after another person they’d just met. Teresa sipped it gratefully and without hesitation. When I made the trek down the block to the bodega, I learned from the clerk and his young friend that she goes there daily, stocks up on groceries, often several bags full, and carries them on the stubby arms of her little push chair. The clerk noted that lately she wheels herself around the grocery store and then stops and rests a few minutes before heading back out. But she didn’t use to do that.
About an hour or so later, Teresa and I had made it from where I met her, about three buildings down. It took her three stops and starts to make it that far. At one point, she started telling me about how she worked for the hospital for twenty years. I didn’t ask any questions. She pushed the loose wispy strands of silver white hair from her face, and looked into my eyes as she talked to me with a voice thick from age or accent. Even though I knew she was making an effort to strike up a conversation, I had my family, including a two-year old long past her bedtime, waiting in the car, and I didn’t want Teresa to use her energy sharing life stories with a person she’d never see again. I think there was something, too, about it that vaguely reminded me of when my grandfather was 90 years old, and dying, and recounting to me what he had done with his life. I wasn’t ready to be the repository again. Instead, I encouraged Teresa on, telling her she was doing a good job. Even though I didn’t want to, I reminded her to take it easy and rest if she wanted. I wanted to lift her up and swoop her straight to her door. I wanted to throw her in the back of the minivan and drive 30 seconds to get to her house. I wanted her to have roller blades and whisk herself off into the darkness of night. I wanted to not be reminded of the fragility of life.
She wore battered brown hush puppies that scuffled along the sidewalk. A neighbor came down the street with her own young son, apparently afflicted by MS or some other disease, and Teresa encouraged me to scoot closer to her, to let them pass. The woman looked at me curiously. I thought maybe she knew Teresa, and would offer to take care of them both. I was hoping that someone we would pass would know Teresa, and would thank me for the time, and get her safely home to a nice, clean apartment where she had top-notch A/C, and someone to take off all the heavy layers of clothes she wore, and tuck her deformed body into a comfy cool bed. No one stopped. In the breaks, I learned that she had a fan but no A/C, and that she hadn’t been feeling well lately. I got the impression she had no real friends or family around. I learned she is fiercely independent. She tried to pay me for the milk and paper towels. By now my older daughter, “A,” 22 and recently graduated from college, was out on the street with us while my partner waited patiently with the younger one in the car. When we got to Teresa’s door, A motioned to me to get the keys from her. They were hooked onto a safety pin that was in the pocket of her nurse’s jacket. I offered to help but, to my amazement, Teresa was able to unhook them and hand them to me. Neither of the two keys opened the front door. I buzzed all three buzzer, and wondered if what I would say would make any sense to the inhabitants. I barely had the words out of my mouth when I was able to push the door open. A young, good-looking man came down the stairs in t-shirt and shorts and began helping us get Teresa and her little push-wheeler up the three stairs to the hall of the building.
As she struggled against those steps and crossed the threshold of the building, she said, “I think this is my last time out.” I immediately tried to brush away the implications, and told her yes it would be smart to stay inside for a few days, it was expected to be very hot out, and maybe she should wait a few days. We both knew better.
Between getting her from the record heat outside into the stifling and oppressive heat inside, A and I learned that the neighbor had helped her outside that night, that she used to own the building but had sold it to someone and in exchange was living there rent free. That she had no family that he knew of. That the landlord/super/new owner (?) would sometimes check in on her and take care of her. That she had said earlier that she wasn’t feeling well and someone might need to take her to the hospital.
The apartment was the opposite of what I had hoped to see. Her keys dangled from the door. A cockroach greeted us as soon as we stepped in. There were boxes of food on the counter, a small lamp with broken lampshade and just an exposed light bulb as the sole source of light. The fan wasn’t plugged in, and I didn’t know how Teresa could possibly have bent down to turn it on. I plugged it in, and helped her into her chair. She pulled off three layers of shirts, one a long-sleeved dirty sweatshirt, until she was sitting in a loose t-shirt the bright fuchsia color of the new rose on my front porch.
In the process, the fan stopped working. A pointed this out to me, and I jiggled it till it worked again. I asked Teresa if I could open the windows more but she wanted me to close them all the way (I didn’t tell her that I wouldn’t do that but of course I didn’t). We exchanged numbers with the neighbor after learning that he had called the super, who wasn’t coming. Teresa said all the super cared about was money. I tried to ask if she had any family we could contact but she said they were all in Brazil. After about ten minutes of lingering, I finally said good-night to Teresa and left as she sat in her chair by herself, her silver hair swooping out from the loose bun at the nape of her neck, in the shadow of a the large hump that is her back.
I we got a text message from the neighbor about an hour later saying that she was feeling better. I couldn’t get the image of the dirty kitchen and filthy refrigerator out of my head. Worse was the image of Teresa alone in the nearly dark room, silent except for the struggling hum of the tiny fan. She seemed so familiar to me. I still can’t shake the feeling that I know her from somewhere. Maybe she is the universal embodiment of all that I fear of loneliness and old age. Maybe, too, that the scene showed me how much we all rely on each other, and the fragility of that.
revelgardener 