We threw some organic . . .

. . . soil, rotting in the bin I had made for all things organic but had started to smell. Bad. Really bad. Over the fence into the bottom the hill behind the house. Three weeks later, we had a ladder that cascaded up toward the top of the hill, then disappeared into some small fog, that didn’t smell good either.

In fact, it smelled as if a dead opossum had stepped in some day-old horse manure, then keeled over a pressed duck, left behind by a band of gypsies. {why are Gypsies always come in bands? A band of what? Rubber bands, bandages?] Needs more work, here! 

I wish I could say that it was an easy JUMP up on the first rung, then magically being lifted to then top rung, but that was not the way it went at all. Not at all. Before I started up, I thought I needed supplies. Lunch. Water. Candy for whatever was waiting up at the top.

If there were a top. 

to be continued

Forget Machu Picchu . . .

“If I put one of our own into my mouth and don’t get a buzz, put me in the ground. No, don’t. I might sully the earth in my full form. Immolate me before the sun goes down.”

My grandmother’s declaration was uttered every 4th of July, just before the fireworks from the Rose Bowl lit up the Pasadena sky. They didn’t stop as she approached 70.

“Tomorrow, we pickle.”

These summer tomorrows were embedded in my youth. They were always the hottest days of the year. Every bit worth it, as not one dill pickle since has matched the experience I had after sneaking one from the Mason jar hidden in the rear of the fridge. [If you can’t see them, you might forget them.]

Some climb Everest. Some get PADI scuba certification. Some go to Machu Picchu. I yearn for that buzz on my tongue, that fizz just behind where my wisdom teeth used to be.

I seek the fizz.

I will pickle. I will raise the cukes myself. From scratch. There are issues with this. I’ve never grown anything. I don’t have a farm. The recipe is lost.

Someone gave me a pink T-shirt a few years ago, “Reality is no obstacle” spread across my décolletage. Undaunted, I don my garden gloves and press on.

Day One

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Sowed a few seeds. Didn’t know they had to be in planted in mounds. Guess they don’t want to get their feet wet. The seeds look like . . . seeds that appear like stars when a cucumber is sliced. Don’t know why I was surprised by this. What did I expect?

No room for ‘mounds’ or ‘hills’ so I did the best I could. In the spirit of optimism, I photocopied the seed package and printed out a little signpost. Just in case something happened.

Day Two

Monday, April 27, 2015

Don’t ask. Why would I go out at 9:00 pm and shine a flashlight on the little patch of soil. What did I expect? Removed the signpost. I know what’s in there. I can hear them.

Three little peeping pckes.

Three little peeping pickles

Day Seven

Saturday, May 2, 2015

I have pickle! Birth. One green leaf is poking up through the soil like an almost-born baby. I am in awe.

Day Eight

Sunday, May 3, 2015

Going to have to keep a diary . . . by the hour! I need another trip to the nursery for more pots. Just noticed these are climbers. Need a trellis.

I don't need red arrows!

I don’t need red arrows!

Stay tuned. This will take a while.