Given the celebratory Olde English and two exclamation points, you may have gathered that it was sunny here today. So sunny, in fact, that I peeled the hoop cover off my veggies and weeded my lettuce, which continues to overwinter quite nicely in its plastic hut, thankyouverymuch. Then, for good measure, I cut back my bee balm. Mostly so I could wallow in its soothing fragrance. Now that’s a good January day in the garden.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Not everything is precisely where it will remain next spring because a couple of beds need some more design planning over the winter—not to mention that gardening is never truly “done” and who’d want it to be? But it’s sure a sweet relief to have all of my plants in the ground.

It’s become such a psychological and physical burden that I think it’s going to take a while to realize that I no longer need to clench up and feel instantly overwhelmed when I go out to the garden. It’s still a little shocking to see the beds so neat and tidy, and I might have some sort of post-traumatic gardening stress because I still see nursery pots and unplanted things setting where they used to be, but I’m sure I’ll recover after a nice winter rest.

Hellooooo? Anybody still out there?

Despite the lackluster Pacific Northwest weather, I’ve had a lovely summer.

I’d intended to renovate the Sorry Garden, but instead I spent the summer out on the back porch cultivating my self. I didn’t work in the garden at all, except to grow some veggies. And I didn’t take garden photos. And I divorced the computer, although I retained visitation rights to my favorite blogs. It was very liberating.

Mostly, I contemplated. I contemplated who I am. I contemplated my strengths and weaknesses. I contemplated my motivations. I contemplated what makes me happy. I contemplated what it means to be who I am. And I contemplated how I want to live my remaining years.

Occasionally I daydreamed about being 5’7, size 2, and independently wealthy, with Mr. Sorry feeding me grapes and painting my toenails according to my whim. But mostly I contemplated.

Along the way, I picked up a book and rediscovered the utter pleasure of reading. I read one book after another after another, kind of the way Forrest Gump ran and ran and ran. I haven’t read that many books in the last 20 years.

And I stayed clean all summer. Usually I’m covered with sweat and dirt and bug spray and have dog shit on my garden shoes. But this summer I stayed gloriously clean.

When I ventured out to the local tour of gardens, I wasn’t even envious as I gawked at the perfect plantings. I just thought, “Boy, keeping a garden like that sure takes a lot of work.” And then I came home to the back porch and took a nap.

Now here I sit, clinging to the coattails of one of the most gratifying summers of my life. And, even though I’ll probably always be a sorry gardener, I understand myself much better now. And that’s mostly what this blog is about, after all.

P.S. Thanks to those of you who continued to check for new posts, or tracked me down through email, or kindly prodded, or outright scowled at me over lunch for depriving you of your blog fix while I was away.

In the first wee hours of the morning 44 years ago, I was but a newborn baby.

I tossed and turned in utero—probably clenching my little jaw and grinding my baby gums and worrying about life and how I was going to live it—until I got myself all upside down and backward and unable to move forward.

After considerable cajoling, I finally wriggled my way along the natural path. But I didn’t suffer the world easily. Not even born and already set in my ways.

The forceps yanked me from safe comfort and into the harsh cacophony of life. My forcible journey riddled my tiny face with tiny scratches that are now tiny scars along my hairline. Not even a minute old and already flawed.

I perfected my scowl within the first hour, then impatiently demanded to know what the next hour held. I strained against the swaddling blanket—annoyed that the stripes were not aligned—and waited patiently to be a grownup, set loose upon the world to make it mine, against the odds of my self-doubt. Not even hours old and already seeking happiness.

In the first wee hours of the morning 44 years ago, I was already me.

Santa Daisy (with apologies to Eartha Kitt)

Santa Daisy, just slip a new spade under the tree,
for me.
Been an aw-ful good girl,
Santa Daisy, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa Daisy, and let me get a landscaping crew,
won’t you?
I’ll make it up to you dear,
Santa Daisy, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Think of all the fun I’ve missed.
Think of all the times that we haven’t kissed.
Next year life could be really good,
if you’d hire out my gardening list.

Santa Daisy, I want it bought,
and really that’s not a lot.
Been an angel all year,
Santa Daisy, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa Daisy, there’s one little thing I really need,
the weeds,
pulled from all the beds now,
Santa Daisy, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa Daisy, please fix my garden it’s such a wreck,
one check.
Sign your X on the line,
Santa Daisy, and hurry down the chimney tonight.

Come and trim my cherry tree,
With some big long loppers bought at Tiffany.
I really do believe I’m screwed,
Let’s see if you believe it too.

Santa Daisy, forgot to mention one little thing,
porch fling.
It’s just one little loan,
Santa Daisy, so hurry down the chimney tonight.

Copyright Hallmark Licensing, Inc.

Dear Auntie Shirley,

You’re a sweetheart, but I refuse to open your Christmas card. The way it’s crunching and crackling through the envelope, I know it’s a glitter bomb. I’m sure it’s a beautiful card wishing us much holiday happiness, so in the interests of true comfort and joy, I’m leaving it sealed in the envelope. But I’ll admire your return address and think of you fondly.

I’m sure you’ll understand my policies regarding a glitter-free Christmas. Because if I open that envelope—even very, very carefully—POW! that glitter bomb will explode, and I’ll look like I’ve been shooting a music video between laundry loads.

And I know you didn’t start the hype that glitter is supposed to be festive, but I wish folks would just knock it off so I’m not sweeping that shit out of the couch cushions until February—just in time to start all over again for Valentine’s Day.

Also, since I’m behind schedule this year, you may have noticed that there was no glitter on the card I sent you. And no stamp. And no envelope. But I’m making a list of who was naughty and nice with the glitter. So you better watch out.

Love,

Kelly

Somehow, I overlooked that my trip to Indiana to visit Lornet and Fa last week occurred smack-dab at the critical time for my Christmas decorating, baking, shopping, and shipping.

To save some time, I bought their gifts right there in town, where there’s only one place to shop: Walmart. I had to lower my standards a little, so I got Lornet a hunting license and some ammunition in her favorite color. And for Grandma, I got a Harley-Davidson Bible Verse calendar, with daily inspirations such as, “Love thy neighbor as much as thy Harley hog.” I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.

When I got back to Seattle, Mr. Sorry and I sprang into action to make up lost time and get our Christmas tree. Turns out that it’s shockingly difficult to buy a tree this time of year. Good luck finding a lot that’s open on a Monday or a U-Cut farm that hasn’t cut their quota and closed for the season. Who knew?

Now, Christmas Tree Day is inherently traumatic in its own right. So every year—in the truck on the way to the tree farm—it also happens to be the day that we reflect upon what makes our marriage tick. On our anniversary, in October, we have the good sense to open a nice bottle of wine and keep our mouths shut. But on the way to get the tree, we practically renew our vows. It’s like we need confirmation that we’re both in it for the long haul before we embark upon the most slippery of all marital negotiations: choosing which dead shrub we want to spend $70 on and prop up in our living room.

We finally found a tree farm that was still a few yuppies-with-bow-saws shy of its 2009 cutting quota and we walked around, eerily alone, carefully eyeballing big trees (because last year’s was too small). Once we’d lingered long enough that they all looked the same, Mr. Sorry lay down in the mud and sawed one off and we hoisted it on top of the truck and tied it down with the only twine I could find, which was for trussing chicken.

As we headed down the highway with our marriage firmly intact, and our 12-ft trussed tree not so much, it suddenly shifted and lifted. And, in a moment sweeter than any wedding vows, our eyes met and neither of us said a word as he slid open the sunroof and, with pine needles and bird nests blowing in on us, we each reached out a bare hand and grabbed the frozen stump of the tree we’d just killed and hung on together for dear life as we barreled down the highway, laughing like 20 years of crap hadn’t piled upon our shoulders.

And, as much as I’d like to leave you with that happy ending, I can’t. Because it’s just not the way our life goes. This is the way life goes:

With the truck interior trashed and our jeans and jackets muddy and sticks and pine needles in our hair, we chainsawed the base of the tree straight—with a dull chain—and blew the remaining bird nests and grass out of the tree with the leaf blower—which, naturally, ran of gas—and hefted the tree onto the front porch—where it wouldn’t fit through the door—and dragged it around back to the French doors and put that 12-ft Christmas shrub in the corner of the living room—where it wouldn’t stand up. Not for love or money. Not even after we hauled it back outside and re-cut the trunk three times.

Finally, a moment short of chainsawing it right there in the livingroom, Mr. Sorry successfully counter-balanced the crooked trunk and lean of the tree at exactly the right angle and the tree miraculously stood by itself. We held our breath for a few moments then strung it with lights. As we ate dinner, we glanced at that behemoth Christmas shrub and tried to like it. We tried to like it a whole lot.

The next morning, that 12-ft sucker fell over on me just as I put on the last strand of garland. So I peeled off the decorations, dragged it out to the patio, slathered on some old red lights, and there it stands—lit up like a whorehouse. If it falls over again, I’m dragging it to the burn pile.

After work, Mr. Sorry stopped by the True Value and got an 8-footer. It’s the first time he’s ever bought a tree without me. But it’s okay because we’d already renewed our vows. It slipped right through the front door and is decorated all nice and bright … and, so far, it’s still standing. Cross your fingers.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all—whether it’s celery sticks or carrots, olives black or green, spinach dip or wine cheese ball, turkey or some ham, dressing moist or stuffing dry, butternut squash or yams, cranberry sauce or salad, gravy in a boat or bowl, warm cornbread or dinner rolls, broccoli-cheese or green-bean casserole, apple, pumpkin, pecan, or my, oh my, Bob Andy pie—Happy Thanksgiving to you all.