Finding Your Bees

I went out for a walk (OK, it was my once-a-week smoke break) during my lunch hour yesterday.  Across the street from my office is a seedy, no-name motel - the kind of place that you seldom notice.  It is typical 1960s motel architecture: run down, no shade, with little-to-no green space, located in the middle of a downtown area.  Parking lot to one side, now-defunct bank on the other.  Not the most welcoming of places.

Testing the theory that stolen food tastes better

A year ago, I spotted a volunteer eggplant in the patch of grass next to the street.  On my walk this week, I wandered over to see if the volunteer had re-volunteered another generation of plants.

Sure enough, near the original spot, there was a big, green plant.  I lifted the canopy of leaves to find a host of small, beautiful, lavender eggplants.

I smiled, and picked one, slipping it into my pocket, while marveling at how wonderful nature was, to volunteer plants where there was once just a patch of weedy ground and a discarded eggplant.

Yeah, I don't know who discards eggplants, either.  That is to say, I don't know of anyone who discards raw eggplants in weedy lots.  I know plenty of people who discard cooked eggplant, and when I was a kid, I was responsible for some such discards when Mom was not looking.  But I don't think that kind of discard results in many volunteers.

But I digress.

Not much space.  Not much green.

The eggplant bush was in a tiny grassy area.  I looked around, and there were a bunch of weeds along the opposite edge of the parking lot, interspersed with decorative plants.  The nearest of the weeds, though, looked an awful lot like a pepper plant.

Dang.  Sure enough, it WAS a pepper plant.

A little further down, another pepper.  And another.  Twelve plants, interspersed in with the ornamentals. On a narrow strip of ground between the parking lot and the grungy parking garage of a sad motel.

Basil, too.  And mint.  And lemongrass.  Suddenly, I am seeing that this is not a volunteer location.

Instead, I had just raided someone's garden.  In a motel parking lot.  I looked around for the inevitable cameras that recorded my petty theft.

And then shrugged, with full smile on my face.  Someone had taken a crappy little corner of the universe and made it theirs.  They had found a way to bring something positive out of the peeling paint and auto-exhaust begrimed surfaces, and brought forth life for their table.

I love that idea.

A friend likened it to my hunt for bees.  For most people, having an infestation of stinging insects is not something to meet with joy.  But everywhere I go, I always keep an eye out for any bees, anywhere, especially hives that I could steal, bring to my house, and give them a new home.  My friend challenged me to write about it.

So the "Finding Your Bees" series is dedicated to everyone who has taken something that is overlooked and made it into something wonderful.  And I ask for you to share it with me - either in the comments or in email form.  Examples can include:

New Orleans Container House....

• Artists who make things with found objects 
• Repurposing artists (my brother Parker is a master at this!)
• Guerrilla Gardeners - who tame abandoned lots and make them into community gardens
• People who build houses out of shipping containers (not as novel now, but somebody did the first one not so long ago)
• Scientists who are working at re-introducing lost seeds to farmers
• Archaeologists who are introducing old techniques to help improve the lives of modern folk 
• Linguists who are working to revitalize languages in indigenous communities
• Brewmasters who re-introduce old recipes, based on either historic data or archaeological evidence
• Someone who figured out what to do with kudzu (or nutria, or water hyacinth, or Asian carp, or...)
• Someone who makes musical instruments out of unusual stuff, or that make sounds that are unexpected (left handed sewer-flutists like Michelle Bowe need apply!)

If you know of a Johnny Appleseed character, group, or collective, let me know about it.  Or if you are doing something where you are taming - or wilding - a piece of the world in a novel way, I want to hear the story.  

Non-profits and other programs are fair game.  My sister pointed me to a news story that talked about writers who were invited to move to areas of Detroit that were hit hard by the economic downturn - with the idea that creative folk can lift up a neighborhood (see the story at http://www.writeahouse.com/).

The world is an amazing place, filled with incredible people.  I love it when people see things in a different way than usual, and see possibility when the rest of the world sees none.  It is almost like they are giving the world the gift of a visual pun.

Tell me yours.

You Gotta Squint to See Better

A year ago, I had traveled to central Massachusetts to attend a conference for work, and when it was over, stayed an extra day to visit with my sister.

While I was there, she had her Christmas tree delivered.  It was a lovely spruce tree, and it immediately made the room smell divine.  Later that evening, she began a slow waltz of placing lights on the tree, stepping back, then stepping in again to adjust, and then placing the next swoop of lights.

Confession:  I have never enjoyed the decorating part.  I love having the tree, but the act of decorating has never given me joy.  But I love my sister, and so I helped.

My helping normally involves handing the lights around the back of the tree, and then pulling the slack.  The idea of adjusting is so foreign to me that it had to be explained.

The real trick, explained Caroline, is to squint.  If you step back for a second and squint your eyes almost shut, you can see the areas of the tree that are still dark. Then you can adjust the lights to fill that void.

Tree by James Wade

"Seriously?"

"Try it", she said.

Now my family has a long history of telling one another stories with the sole purpose of making the victim do something and look ridiculous, so that we can mock them.  It was definitely not out of the realm of possibility that I was being set up.  But I was also curious, so I tried it.

And I gasped.  "Are you kidding me?  Where did you learn that?"

Mom, I love you.

All of us have that guilty pleasure.  Whether it is watching Ellen or Maury, or reading bodice rippers, or fixing key lime fudge just to eat by ourselves, there is always something that we do that just gives us a little thrill - something that is not part of what we would willingly share with the world.

I have a number of guilty pleasures, but one of my regulars is reading the Postsecret blog.

For those five of you who don't know what Postsecret is, it is a website that updates every Sunday, providing anonymous secrets that people mailed in from around the world.  The idea is that nobody will know it is you, and that there is something quite liberating to give up the secret.  It also provides a voyeuristic thrill to read other people's secrets, and let you share a little bit with people you don't know. Somehow, it  seems to make the world just a little smaller, and more likeable.

Last night, I was working on some classwork, and midnight passed; to celebrate, I opened a window to the website.

It is Mother's Day.  And people share some of the most heart-rending, saddest, happiest, joyous postcards ever on Mother's Day.  Common themes: Mom, I forgive you; Mom, I miss you; Mom, you are my heroine; Mom, please get off of heroin.

And this one.

This one resonated with me.

Let me tell you about my mom.  Patty Lawton is a caretaker.  She is a facilitator.  She is an enabler. She is a cheerleader.  She is a lover, and a fighter, and is devoted beyond all imagination.  She gives of herself, and loves with a fierceness that I have never seen in anyone else.

When we were in Brasil, I fell off the boat.  Mom, hearing my screams (I couldn't swim) woke from a dead sleep and dove over a four-foot rail straight into the Amazon River to save me. I knew I was saved, and stopped yelling (which was unfortunate, because she could no longer see me because of the glare.)  The she-bear instincts were strong in my mom, and she rescued me.  (Little Bear got his bottom warmed after that incident, but it was done in love...)

Call me Ishmael

Call me Ishmael.

 

A friend loaned me a record once.  Yes, that old-timey grooved vinyl frisbee that made scratchy, skippy music.  The album title is not important, but what I did with it next was. 

I put it in the hatch of my Toyota Corolla.  In South Carolina.  In July. 

Four hours later, the record was destroyed.  Warped beyond any ability to even pretend that I hadn't destroyed it.  The next week, Jack asked me if I had liked the album, and I had to admit that I had never even listened to it.  And I showed him the results.

What was it that I was supposed to do?  Shrug my shoulders, and say, 'It wasn't really my fault'? Give it back to him?  Offer him a protection plan to avoid future meltings?

Of course not.  The right thing to do would be to buy a new album to replace the one I destroyed. 

Remembering this episode yesterday, I realized that I have come up with the perfect, just, and equitable solution to the problem of the OPM data breach. 

Thank you.

Gratitude is tough.

I don't like inequality.  I don't like feeling like I am only on the receiving side of a relationship.  I like giving a dollar's work for a dollar's pay (and vice-versa), and I like things being balanced.  It is a good feeling settling old accounts, getting closure on things that have been on my 'to-do' list for too long. 

But I have also been on the receiving end of unequal relationships quite a bit.  I was a graduate student for a long time - and I do mean a LONG time. Grad school means debt, and lots of it. It means a lot of things that are different from my 9-to-5 existence now.

• It means working part time jobs, because you have to be available for out-of town research opportunities.
• It means you have to fund that research with grants (which are very competitive) or on the credit card.
• It means living tight.
• It means buying used.
• It means renting. And usually renting in low-income areas.
• Biking, walking, Ramen noodles, depletion of meager savings... all part of grad school.

And occasionally, it means being on the receiving end of a handout.  From family, or from friends. To do that graciously is an art.  Because gratitude is tough.

A good friend of mine once told me that the hardest part of becoming wealthy (her small company grew from 15 people to an enormous multi-national corporation in a few years) was that she wanted to share the wealth with people she loved.  And her friends saw the money as some sort of indebtedness, rather than as a gift. And since they couldn't reciprocate, the relationship was unequal. They began to accept her invitations less, and included her in on their activities less.  She lost friends because of money.  Just not for the reasons she thought she might.

Hearing that statement was a turning point for me.  So instead of demurring, and declining her offer of the Sony Walkman (yes, I know.  It was a while ago), I turned to her and said "Thank you."

The delight on her face was amazing.

I did not change overnight into a 'receiver'.  I still love being in a position to help or to provide, and I love being able to find the perfect surcee (for the definintion, see my previous blog entry here) and give it for no reason at all.

But that encounter changed my attitude about receiving gifts.  I am now able to recognize the gift for the expression of affection that it is.  And I can appreciate it as such, rather than assuming that it is creating a debt peonage that I can never repay.

So I find my greatest kinship with those who

My Nieces Elsa and Anna

My niece is the most wonderful creature ever.

Riley Claire is the middle child – the second of three stairstep girls.  At two years old, she has already understands that in order to have something of her very own (that is, something that her older sister does not take away from her and claim as hers) that she has to ask for items that do not appeal to Molly Emma.

Items like, for example, Anna dolls.

Every little girl out there has explained to her parents the importance of the Elsa dress, the Elsa wig, the Elsa lunchbox, the Elsa bedsheets, the Elsa sleeping bag; you name it, and the Frozen marketing department has put an Elsa on it. 

Molly has claimed every Elsa item in existence as hers….and has gotten very nearly the full set.

Riley Claire decided that, rather than fight for every Elsa item, she liked Anna best.  As a result, she has laid claim to everything Anna related.

She has also come to realize that Anna doesn’t have magical powers, so she requested an Elsa doll of her own.

Fast forward to Christmas morning. 

Treasure and Lagniappe

A guest blog entry I wrote for a cousin's blog:

A few weeks ago, I found a twenty dollar bill on the side of the road. I can now no longer walk by that spot without scanning the bushes nearby for another that might have somehow escaped. (This is not new with me - I still know a place where I found two pennies when I was four years old, and always look to see if there is more there, even today).

A month ago, I got praised at work. I keep doing what I got praised for, long after it is no longer needed.

I got a laugh at a joke. My wife will tell you that the worst thing possible is for me to get caught in THAT particular feedback loop. Likewise, I dare not go to the casino. I feed off of that reward hit in my brain, regardless of the cost to get there.  For all intents and purposes, 

I am that rat in the heroin experiment, pushing that lever long after the drug is no longer being dispensed.

A wandering rabbi once told his followers, "Wherever your treasure is, there will your heart be also." That guy was talking about me, obviously.

Banj-handling

We have panhandlers on Carrolton Avenue in New Orleans.  It is the source of contention for a lot of us, and it makes us mad, because it is the same group, panhandling every day.  I have written before about homelessness and panhandling and about how I am conflicted by it.

But I think I may have happened upon a solution.

I was driving down Carrolton yesterday, and saw something that made me reach wildly, and mostly unsuccessfully, for my camera.  The picture I took was a blurry shot taken out the back window, and it is not even anything that is terribly out of the ordinary here in New Orleans. It was a guy with a tuba (OK, it was a Sousaphone), and he wasn't playing it, just walking down the street.

Surcee - 'just because'

"surcee: (n) - hmmmm....."

There is no entry for 'surcee' in my desk copy of the M-W dictionary.  Random House also failed me.

I know the word is there.  I learned it growing up.  My wife has always referred to it as a 'happy' (the use of an adjective as a noun bugs me, but it communicates the sense pretty well).  A surcee, or a happy, is a gift given with no associated reason.  It is not a thank you gift, or a birthday gift. 

It is a 'just because'. 

It is different from the concept of lagniappe.  Lagniappe is a gift given in addition to the purchase.  It is intended to augment a business relationship, and push and economic transaction into more of a personal realm.  Surcees are different, because they are intended to celebrate the relationship; they are a gift given because the person was thinking about you.

I love the idea.  It might be because my birthday falls right after Christmas, and I couldn't expect a gift at any other time of the year.  It might be because such a gift giving appeals strongly to my spontaneous nature.

Or it might be because I see it as an expression of love.

See, if you give me a gift on my birthday, and I give you one on yours, we have a quid-pro-quo going on.  Even if I miss your birthday, there is a weird obligation relationship - it is almost as though the spirit of the gift desires to be returned to the originator.

The surcee has no such draw.  It is a gift of small value, often a spur-of-the-moment purchase, made with the recipient in mind.  The candy bar that you know they like.  The silly earrings you thought they would laugh at.  The box of the coveted chocolate-covered ginger Altoids. A cutting from your rosebush. All the gifts have little value - they are picayune - but communicate love.

Interestingly, I believe that the new Coca-Cola campaign is based on the premise of the surcee.  Share a coke with Steve.  Or Robert.  Or a Buddy.  The campaign encourages the unexpected gift.  Expressions of love.  The purchase of a coke for yourself.... and then one to share. 

An internet search for 'surcee' seems to locate its use in coastal South Carolina, and I suppose that makes sense.  I heard my mom use it, but I don't remember it from my dad.  Or from many others in the upstate, for that matter. 

But I am going to work to bring it to life where I live.  Because I need to give surcees.  And because I love to get them. 

How about it?  Can you think of someone who could use a small gift, for no reason? 

Go.  Give them a surcee.