These are the Meadow Mowing days in Oysterville. Every year about this time, the meadows in between the most easterly houses and the bay are shorn of their yearly growth. Everything goes! The tall grasses which have turned golden in the summer sun. The little alder trees and gorse trying, as always, to gain a foothold and begin the process of reforestation. The Queen Anne’s Lace and giant Hogweed and who know what all else — mowed down for another season.
Lest you think it is only that we mow the meadows for our view — there are many other reasons, too. An obvious one, of course, is the fire danger that they would pose after a few years of neglect. But, more importantly to many of us is the habitat they provide, once the fall and winter rains come. There are times when the entire waterfront meadow looks like one big lake — a fact not lost on the dabbling ducks and flocks of geese who come and “settle in” each day, sure of finding the best morsels those brackish ponds and puddles can provide.
I know that this will be the first time I will truly miss the chickens. They loved to cluck and fuss at all the activity on the other side of our east fence. I wonder if any of the old-timers among the waterfowl will notice that our domestic fowl are gone. And should you wonder if it’s really the same geese and ducks who return year after year — it’s probably been too long since you’ve read a good book about migratory birds. There are dozens (of books, that is) and this is a great time of year to get started on a couple while you’re waiting for the honkers and dabblers to arrive right here on the Peninsula!
Sometimes I think that certain medical problems are sort of like fads. Take sleep apnea, for instance. Thirty or forty years ago, most of us had never heard of sleep apnea. Then, in 1965 it was “discovered” and in 1981 continuous positive airway pressure (CPAP) therapy was introduced through a nasal mask. “The rest is history,” so to speak.
“Trigger finger,” like “sleep apnea” is a term I had never heard ten or fifteen years ago — maybe even shorter ago than that. My awareness, of course, has nothing to do with the severity or the extent of the problem. I just find it interesting that we (or at least I) flail along unaware of these sorts of conditions and then, when some sort of critical mass is reached, I become aware of multiple situations. So different from the concerted world-wide effort put forth to educate us about a pandemic… But, as they say, “it’s all relative” as well it should be.
“Self,” I said to myself… “It’s high time to get on with this downsizing project!” It’s a project Nyel and I began several years ago with an eye to leaving the house in understandable condition when it’s our time to shuffle off. “Understandable” translates to getting rid of all of our personal “stuff” — those keepsakes and photos and endless file folders of written material that will mean nothing to those who will be here next.
I began this morning with a heavy cardboard box labeled Dale’s Photos etc. ’98? “Piece of cake,” I thought to myself. “Those were the years when mom was at Golden Sands and later at the nursing home. I probably took most of those pictures myself. They’ll be easy to cull…”
Hard on the heels of that treasure, I ran across a postcard in my own tidy 22-year-old’s handwriting sent from Perugia, Italy on March 8, 1958. The picture on the front was of Michelangelo’s “David” and I reported that we (Charlie’s dad and I)) were still crazy about Italy and that “Quad (which was Charlie’s toddler- nickname) is fine.”
For whatever reason, for most of my life (and hers) I’ve identified closely with Queen Elizabeth II — not because of our similarities, mind you, but because of our differences. She was ten years older than I and my first clear recollection of her was in June 1953 — the year of her coronation. She was 27 and I was 17.
I remember sitting on a lawn chair in the yard (it truly wasn’t a “garden” then) of my grandparents’ house in Oysterville, pouring over the June 15, 1953 issue of “Life” magazine. Although she had been Queen for a full year, the coronation couldn’t take place until the mourning period for her father, King George VI, had taken place. As I read, I wondered over and over how it would be to know from your childhood what role you would play in the future.
Through the years, my admiration grew — except for the slight glitch when her sister Margaret was not allowed to marry Group Captain Peter Townsend. Surely the Queen could have interceded. And, again, her long silence after Princess Diana’s death… It has taken me years to understand that her reactions (or lack thereof, at least in public) were part and parcel of that steady hand that kept the ship of the realm on course for 70 years. At what personal cost, I’ve often wondered.
Queen Elizabeth wasn’t a role model exactly. More… the best possible example of making the most of the hand you are dealt and doing so with grace and persistence, sometimes against all odds. I’m glad I shared so many years with her — even if from afar.
There’s an unmistakable and instant “recognition” when you stick your bare foot into a garden boot right on top of a frog — even if you’ve never done it before! Fortunately, my synapses were firing on all four burners and before I shifted my weight to put on the other boot I absolutely knew: if I do that we’ll have a boot full of mess and we’ll be missing one of the more delightful of our garden creatures.
So far this year, I’ve not heard the Treefrogs singing to one another. Perhaps I haven’t been outside at dusk. I’ll make a point to remedy that now. I do love to hear them call out to one another — often from our hanging baskets of fuchsias. Harbingers of Fall for sure, marking the end of yet another Summer.
I don’t like to argue with tourists. Mostly, I don’t have to. When visitors to Oysterville happen to ask me questions and I happen to be able to answer, I’m usually met with respectful interest and often with a righteous exchange of information. Learning something new is the part I enjoy most.
I wondered if dear Marian and her handsome husband, Jim, ever got to eat anything at all. There was a steady stream of well-wishers at the table — sometimes a whole line-up. Marian, gracious as always, didn’t seem to worry about her pancakes and sausage getting cold. She held firmly to each well-wisher’s hand and smiled and smiled.
