Terrace Time

The New "Popsicle" Stylin 

I returned home from work last night expecting some serious down time because the past weekend’s Deckzilla experience was still weighing on my back. Unfortunately my mind was still set in winter mode. Since the temperatures were finally spring like my Favorite Panamanian was released from her self-imposed indoors exile and was in full garden mode. That meant I was in full garden mode. I complain but I actually do enjoy spending time out there with her providing the brute force and ignorance while she supplies the design ideas and direction.

Her NH Cousin

With the ABFA

Chipmunks had spent the past two years burrowing into the ground along the terrace walls I built on the back hillside and when the ground thawed the dirt started sinking along the wall. Luckily we had more than a dozen flower pots full of expired plants and rich garden soil. My wife doesn’t like to reuse it for her deck plants so I came up with the “brilliant” idea to use that dirt to fill in along the terrace walls. She readily agreed and promptly assigned the task to me to complete. I’ve got to learn to keep my mouth shut. I spent the rest of the daylight hours lugging dirt up the hill and moving the piles of winter debris she’d positioned back into the woodline.

We culminated with planting the final of her weekend acquisitions. In a truly rare experience I didn’t run into any head sized rocks during my excavations. I was also running around watering what I hope to be a front yard some day. We eventually did make it down to the Man Cave where we watched the incredibly funny Girls Trip.

Scant news on the granddaughter front yesterday although my wife and I did get to spend most of the FBR’s dinner with her via FaceTime. She reveled in some barbecue sauce, some of which ended up in her mouth. She was mostly invested though in her post dinner popsicle. She comes about that dedication honestly since her mother has a well-earned international reputation for popsicle worship. Her Panamanian grandfather’s nickname for her was “Popsicle” since she always inveigled a trip to the corner store from him during her visits to purchase the frozen treats.

That daughter of mine has evolved to more lofty pursuits and when we were recently talking about my reaction to seeing the movie Chappaquiddick she strongly recommended I read Joyce Carrol Oates’ novel, Black Water. During our last visit she loaned me her copy of the book which brought the added benefit of reading an actual book again instead of my usual electronic versions on the Kindle. The book is a thinly veiled retelling of the Chappaquiddick tragedy with an unnamed Senator driving a young girl away from a 4^th of July party at a New England beach cottage only to end up in an overturned, submerged car abandoned by the Senator. I took this book as an ode to Mary Jo Kopechne, Ted Kennedy’s victim. Most of the stories told about the real world accident revolve around his actions and the true victim’s story and what she went through is glossed over for the more salacious details of a Kennedy. Oates with her fantastic ability with the written word brings the reader into the car with the young lady as she struggles through her final breathes firmly believing the Senator will return to save her, even as the black water fills her lungs. The ultimate lesson being a through skewering about having faith in politicians to think beyond themselves. I’m even more pissed at the Kennedys than I was after seeing Chappaquiddick.