Agave Requiem

The blue bonnets have begun to bloom. In a couple of weeks the entire countryside will be dressed in shades of periwinkle. Friends and family who’d like to visit us, three weeks from right now is when you want to come. 

Last year about this time one of the two huge agaves out front bit the dust. Now the other one is in the first stage of its demise, which was inevitable. I don’t know the names of plant parts so I’ll just say that when it’s time for one of these agaves to die it shoots up an impressive phallic stalk. When the first one stopped growing, its stalk had risen through the branches and above the canopy of a good-sized oak tree, a height of about thirty-five feet. People stopped by to comment.

“You know when it does that, it’s fixing to die, right?” This from the fourth neighbor who wanted to educate us.

Sadly, we did know. When the obelisk lost its upward momentum, and all the elegantly curved leaves at the base had turned to brown mush, the problem became how to get the rotting thing out of there. It had once been a grand and dominating fixture, drawing admiration from everyone. But when it was fully expired the whole area was soggy and smelly from the decaying leaves.

Ordinarily a dead agave is simply left to dry out because the root ball is densely fibrous and staggeringly heavy. But our house is the first one people see when they enter the cul-de-sac; and as such, our front area is appropriately kempt. Leaving the stalk to turn brownish gray and list slowly sideways until it collapsed was out of the question. It would take years.

So David climbed a ladder and sawed across the stalk, creating vulnerably between top and bottom. As strategic advisor, it was my responsibility to repeatedly remind him to Be careful up on that ladder! He tied a rope around the top part, tied the other end of the rope to his truck, climbed in, and pressed the accelerator. And as the truck rolled forward the top of the stalk rattled and shook, then snapped off with a mighty crack! It fell through the branches, landing hard and pointing straight up; then falling over and almost hitting me because I was stupid enough to be standing right there. 

David hacked off the putrid leaves and sawed at the bottom portion of the stalk until all that remained was the base, which weighed a couple of hundred pounds. He fastened a chain around it and, hooking the chain to the truck, pulled the mass out of the ground and on to the driveway, where, to my house-proud horror, it stayed for two weeks, which is how long it took to find someone willing to haul it off.  

The whole process, from the time the stalk first appeared, to disposing of it, took about four months. And now we’re going to have to go through the same thing again. At least we know what we’re getting into.

Did the majestic agaves influence our decision to buy this house? It’s a possibility. They were certainly a magnificent element of the big picture. And I fear no plants will ever be worthy of replacing them.

Here’s an unusual snippet:  A couple of years ago David was clearing the area around the agaves of the babies, several of which sprouted on a weekly basis. One of the needles pierced the back of his leather glove and pricked his hand. He immediately pulled the glove off and studied the painful area; but he couldn’t see a needle, though the swelling was immediate.

A few days later the hand was still swollen. He went to the doctor who looked at it and poked at it, and then said she was pretty sure there was no foreign object in there. She put David on antibiotics, but the hand continued to bother him—hurting and swelling until the skin of the whole hand was purple and strained.

This went on for several weeks, until suddenly it settled down. Fast forward eight months or so, when the palm of David’s hand became tender and inflamed—and then one day the tip of the needle popped out of his palm. This is all kind of gross, but it’s kind of cool, too, to ponder the inherent tenacity of the needle in remaining imbedded for that length of time, and maintaining its original integrity and purpose in what, to it, was an alien environment.

Good-bye, agave. We’re glad we got to enjoy you for a while.   

Another one bites the dust. Day one.

Day two. That's about a foot of growth in a single day. 

Of course he kept it. It's part of him now.

This little lime sizzler will never live up to the agave. 

Solitude

David’s gone to Port Aransas for a few days to help with hurricane cleanup. Originally I thought that maybe, while he was gone, I’d go to Houston to help my sister move. But when she pointed out that, as she’s between homes, she would be unable to offer comfortable accommodation, I chose comfort over being helpful. I’m not like David, who beats me hands down when it comes to helping others.

So, because I was dithering about the Houston trip, I ended up with no plans at all, which isn’t always a bad thing.

I spend the afternoon getting my sewing room in order. The scraps that’re too small to use outnumber usable fabric. While sorting, I watch a movie called Glory Road, about the NCAA championship game between Texas Western University in El Paso and the University of Kentucky, arguably the best game in the history of all games since the beginning of time; and it changed, literally, the future face of basketball. I’m not fond of sports but I love sports movies. One of my many endearing paradoxical quirks.

Ever since a month ago, when David decided to go on this trip, I’ve been looking forward to a period of solitude. When he’s not around I sing loudly, trailing cheerful tunes as I move through the house. It’s not because his presence is oppressive, it’s because my voice is too horrible to inflict on another person. Another thing I tend to do when he's not home is stay up later and drink more. It's good that he's not gone often. 

Also, we’re too much in each other’s business. We comment on one another’s activities to an absurd extent.

“Washing light clothes?” he’ll ask as I carry the laundry basket full of light clothes to the laundry room.

“Going to the gym?” I ask as he stuffs his workout clothes into his gym bag.

After organizing my fabrics I feel the need to get out of the house for a while. Though I recently vowed to stop buying stuff I don’t need, I’m in the mood to walk up and down the colorful aisles of either Dress for Less or Tuesday Morning. Both are jumble stores, with good deals to be had if you’re willing to dig through tons of ugly useless items in order to find treasure. For my purposes, Dress for Less is more about clothes, though they also have household items, perfume, and luggage; while Tuesday Morning is more geared toward kitchen paraphernalia and festive paper plates; although, come to think of it, I found one of my favorite articles of clothing at Tuesday Morning—a white undershirt that’s so soft and cozy that I wear it all winter. I’m wearing it now.

I choose Dress for Less. I’m offended when I take a top to the try-on area and the clerk takes it from me, hangs it on her rack, and tests the anti-theft device to make sure it’s secure. The clothes in this store are so cheap that they practically pay the customers to buy them, and yet they must have had a rash of shoplifting; why else would some higher-up instigate such a petty policy? In the end, Dress for Less renders nothing I want or need. I leave having relearned what I already know, which is that if you want to be treated with respect you should shop at a respectable store. Oh well, it was a place to go.

Later, as I’m walking through the house to fetch a glass of wine, I glance into the backyard. There are six deer out there. I like to see which plants the deer are devouring, so I stop at the window to enjoy their presence for a while. Every evening at this time a fox meanders through, so I’m not surprised when he appears stage left, strolling along comfortably, head held high like he owns the place (it belongs to humans, silly fox). He comes to an abrupt stop when he realizes that he’s surrounded by deer. The deer have halted their munching and are watching him with snooty disdain.

Now I comprehend where the phrase “high-tail it out of there” comes from, because the fox does exactly that. In addition, I’ve learned that foxes prefer not to be surrounded by deer. I decide to include this wildlife incident in a blog so my friends will be equally informed.

Tomorrow I’ll go to the new HEB, which opened its doors for the first time this morning. This store has been the main topic of conversation amongst Marble Fallians for at least a year. It apparently has curbside service and ready-to-prepare meal kits. Over the last month, as the old store emptied out, anticipation has grown to a preposterous level. Some of the women in yoga were there when the door opened at six a.m. They spent the first few minutes of our time praising the layout, the bright lights, the cooking demonstrations at every juncture, and the thoughtful provision of maps.  

Get a grip, people. It’s a grocery store.

An excellent winter shirt to be worn under sweaters for soft warmth. 

You can't tell it from this picture, but this shopping cart is twenty feet tall. Things are CRAZY at the new HEB.

I got a nice email from a reader in New Zealand today. She picked up Old Buildings at the library and loved it so much that she ordered Why Stuff Matters online. It feels weird that my work is in the library in Christchurch, but it's not available here; a situation which will be remedied in April. 

The COLD

I haven’t been to a dentist in close to ten years. This is because lounging back while someone pokes at my perfect teeth is a waste of time and money. I brush and floss every time I put food in my mouth. Every dentist I’ve ever seen has been in awe.

For the last couple of years I’ve been telling myself that I should probably make an appointment to get them cleaned by a professional, but if there’s one thing I do well, it’s procrastinate. Eventually I became annoyed with my habit of considering action rather than taking action; so I called the dentist David goes to and made an appointment for this afternoon.

The dentist’s office calls.

“We need to reschedule,” a woman informs me.

“Why?” I ask, irked because it took genuine volition to make the appointment in the first place; also, I’ve arranged my schedule around it. We went to Houston last week instead of this week because of it. When a friend invited me to run to Bee Cave with her today, I said no. Because of THE APPOINTMENT, which is now CANCELLED.

“Because of the COLD,” she tells me. “We don’t want to put our patients or our staff in danger.” She’s taken on a prissy tone.

Danger from cold? You put on a coat and go. What’s dangerous?

Yesterday, when I stopped by the grocery store for wine and dinner, the parking lot was packed. People were cruising around and around, trying to find a space. I lucked into one. A friend of mine stood at the entry to the store. Fretful and disheveled, she waved me over.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Why all the people?”

“Don’t go in there!” She gives a wild-eyed grimace toward the interior. “It’s a zoo. There’s nothing on the shelves, the people are crazy; and look, there are no carts.” I look: no carts.

“But why?”

“Because of the COLD!”

Is there a store rule against using shopping carts when the temperature drops below freezing?

The COLD has caused the Y to close; so no spin class for David.

The yoga studio is also closed. No warriors for me.

Is it cold outside? Yes. Currently twenty-seven degrees. I reckon a person’d die if they wore no winter gear and stayed out in it for a while. But that’s not the plan. The plan is to get into the heated car, drive somewhere, and enter another heated place.

This closing of businesses and schools is a collective wimp-out.

A contagious fear of the temperature.

A mutual indulgence.

A weak excuse for a day off.

“What are you going to do today?” David asks, woeful because he loves his schedule.

“I don’t know. The general population seems to feel that the outdoors is dangerous.”

 “How can that be? There are places way colder than this, and they haven’t closed down.”

“It’s a puzzle.”

My friend, Mary, calls.

“What are you doing today?” she asks, adding, “I’m going to spend the day reading in bed.”

“You should read Why Stuff Matters. It’s exceptional.” A shameless plug.

“It’s so cold outside, I can’t even make myself go near a window. It’s depressing.”

“You’ve seen colder.”

We both grew up in Amarillo, where blizzards blow through every couple of winters. We’ve seen our share of snow-covered cars and roof-high drifts. The only weather event taking place here in Marble Falls is a measly dip on the thermometer. A few plants might freeze. And because of this, people mobbed the grocery store and fear leaving their homes.

David pops his head in while I’m on the phone.

“They’ve cancelled mail delivery on account of the COLD!” he says.

“We live in a ridiculous town,” I tell him.

He turns and goes away.

“I’m going to feel bored and useless all day,” Mary tells me before ending the call.

I’m not bored. Because I’m a writer I always have something entertaining to do. 

The COLD backyard. This is as far as either of us went from our door today. 

My teeth. 

2017 Waldo's Holiday Newsletter

Hi friends and family!

We kicked off the holidays with our annual Open House, which went very well. Over fifty people dropped in to sample David’s delicious eggnog. It’s fun to watch the different groups that we’re involved in interact. A friend from my Mahjong group will know someone who works on the Habitat house; or a friend from church will know someone who’s in Master Gardeners with David. It’s a small community.

Our firstborn, Curtis, is still lawyering in Houston. This year brought big changes for him. He bought a house (inside the Loop of course) and married Anna, a lawyer for Shell. The two are perfect for each other and David and I are happy that they’re happy. The spring wedding took place in Napa, a welcoming town composed of the things I love most—antique shopping, restaurants, winetasting, and historical neighborhoods to explore. We enjoyed the trip.

Here’s what we hear from Sam these days: his business, Mantra, is no longer a fledgling enterprise, as he currently employs five people, and has taken the company international, which means his glasses are now available for order in the US. He’s been living in China for several years and sometimes goes weeks at a time without speaking English. This year he was interviewed by NPR, China; and he has done a Ted Talk, which will be released soon. The glasses and website are classy and innovative. Here’s the website so you can see what he’s been up to:

https://www.findyourmantra.com/

He and his girlfriend, Julia, live in the Hu tong district of Beijing, a tightly packed maze of interconnected dwellings, a trendy area for the millennial ex-pat up-and-comings, and a place the locals want to escape. Julia, a Brit, works for the British Embassy. She’s spunky, smart, beautiful, and she was very helpful when we visited Beijing. We’d like to see more of Sam, which makes me wonder how my parents felt when David and I stayed overseas for years at a time. I never felt like they missed us at all, not the way we miss Sam. On the other hand, what did we expect? We dragged him from country to country: that he decided to follow the same lifestyle is a testament to how much he enjoyed his childhood.

It’s hardly new news, as I’ve been all over Facebook about it, that my second novel, Why Stuff Matters, was published by Arcadia in October. It’s out only in the UK because I met my agent, Helen Mangham of Jacaranda, in Singapore and, as she’s British, her contacts in the industry are also British. Plans are in place, however, to distribute my first book, Old Buildings in North Texas, in the US, which means that, as of April, it will be available here. So, that’s been a milestone. As to how I spend my time when I’m not writing—I abandoned yoga and tried spin class for a couple of years, which I never enjoyed. Now I’ve returned to yoga and am much happier. And I just finished pinning a quilt, which involves crawling around on the floor and using the recently resumed yoga stretches.

Those of you who know David know that he’s a joiner. Two golf groups, Habitat for Humanity, and Master Gardeners keep him busy, plus he enjoys his workouts and spin class at the Y. He works at the Helping Center, a local food bank, on Fridays, the Habitat house on Saturdays, plays golf on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and has been asked to be a mentor for Master Gardeners, which means organizing a lesson once a week. Busy, busy. He gets irritated with me when, every morning, I ask him where he’s off to, as though I should have his schedule memorized. But he’s all over the place. I can hardly be expected to keep up.

That’s us in a nutshell.

Ya’ll have a happy Christmas and a great year to come!

Jen

Every one of these gift bags holds a bottle of red wine, given to us by people who came to the open house. I guess I've made my preferences known. Thanks, friends. 

Curtis and Anna at their wedding in Napa. They're fun to hang out with.