I should be writing about any one of those handful of topics that churn inside, but I'm very good at avoidance. I practice it in all manner of ways. Class clowning works pretty well. I do or say something goony and the audience laughs. It sustains me for awhile. Or I become interesting. It engages others and one doesn't have to spend any time inside. After all, it is rude to ignore someone who wants to interact. So I'll say it again. This blog is never going to be a pretty flowers picture blog. It was never intended to be. I don't want it to be. That's not what I do. Nor am I a professional or amateur horticulturist. The reader doesn't want to read, and I don't want to write, about how to grow this or that plant. This is not a blog about plants. Plant blogs exist elsewhere. What this blog and the writer are about is (mostly) connecting with others. And that's what this post is about, even though it may seem initially that I'm still on about the damned plants.
So I've posted a couple of times about the bromeliads and the felonious felines. Now it happens that Mother Badger reads the blogs and often has some comments to make. But she does it her way. She doesn't jump on the blogs as a public follower and she doesn't post her contemporary photograph. And she doesn't drop her comments into the blog. She reads the blog and makes comments in e-mail. That's her way, reader. We've all already agreed there aren't any rules to this. And nobody tells Mother Badger how to do anything, anyway. Sometimes she is right up to speed, reading the blogs as they're posted. Other times she drifts away for awhile. I don't think she's consumed by it. This time it happens that she was keeping right up. And she had some information to impart to me, because Mother Badger knows about bromeliads and the like. So her e-mail after the first post gave rise to the second post. But her e-mails after the second post have given rise to this third post and to plenty of belly laughs.I have a vision of Mother Badger sitting at the computer in the Arizona Room, her face toward the wall and her back toward the dining room. I feature her reading the blog and thinking "Hey, I have something to say about this!" She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail and returns to the blog. She reads more and lands on something that makes her muse. "I have a comment about that!" She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail and returns to the blog. Yet another part of my brilliant meanderings grabs her attention. She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail one more time. For the last post brought three separate e-mails and made me think, "This is like conversation! This is almost as good as being in the same room, visiting."
So this time, some of the knowledge imparted is this: when I use a knife to cut the pups away from the mother bromeliad, I should dip the blade in Clorox first. I never planned to become a bromeliad obstetrician and was, in fact, just a little squeamish about such things during my own pregnancy and childbirth experience. However, I'm in the soup now. My curiosity is running and I must move forward. I wonder if the Clorox is some form of antiseptic for the birthing process. I'm kidding! Come on, reader. She didn't state the purpose of the Clorox, but if she says "Do it," I shall, when the time comes. She also said I must use Root Tone on the pup, and that, I do understand, because my research shows the pups don't always have a good root system when it's time to remove them. I liken the Root Tone to the baby powder of this operation.
She had some well-conceived advice that could result in my being able to keep plants at home. She recommends that I steep a strong solution of cayenne pepper and water, put it in a spray bottle, and liberally coat a "test" plant. It occurs to me that cats have a very refined sense of smell. Perhaps they'd be deterred when they stepped up to take the first chomp. But if not, Mother Badger assures me their first bite will be a surprise, indeed. "Hotter than hell for humans or animals," so she says.Lastly, she offers me encouragement and urges me forward. She commented that my pictures reveal lovely, healthy bromeliads which shows that I am on my way. And she suggests that now I am hooked, I should look into proteas. Hmmmm . . . I know about them. At least I could point one out if I saw it and say, "That's a protea." I Googled "protea". They're a little like the bromeliads in construction! I'm not sure where I'd locate one in Las Vegas, Nevada, but I know how to learn that, too. Hmmm . . .
It was Mother Badger's final statement, however, that created the most electrical connection for me. She wrote, "There is something primitive about propagating plants, like teaching . . . . " It struck me hard. This woman was a teacher because that's what she wanted to be. She did it long and I know she did it well, because it's what she loves. And that's what she's just been doing to me. Teaching. Again. I could write several posts about things I have learned from her, but that's for another day. For today, I'll just remind myself that we all have something to give to others. That's how it works. I'll give you a little of this that I have in profusion and I'll take a little of what you possess that I lack. That's the way it goes. It reminds me that I should continue to make eye contact with other humans and say what I have to say, ask what I have to ask. It reminds me of the importance of remaining open and trusting those who have shown themselves to be reliable.
OK, stick a fork in me. I'm done. If I get bromeliads or proteas or a flower or anything else I think is beautiful, I might take a "pitcher" and post it. But I'm done playing the bromeliad investigator of the blogosphere and shall now move on.
In my ears right now: It is a dark, shitty, wintry day in the desert southwest. It is snowing near my home and in my Mojave Preserve in places I was startled to see named in the Severe Weather Alert. In severe weather, people don't exclaim, "Let's call the carpet cleaners out!", so my phones are dead after a booming day yesterday. I'm alone and I could slide a little if I made a poor musical choice. So, dedicated to Bloomsbury Bird and Benson Bird, even though it's been done before. Reader, I do know that parakeets do not possess musical taste, but I swear they react differently to dirges than to something like this. We needed this today. And I can dance to it! Or better yet, hula hoop!
Something that charmed me: I had a terrible 9 mile walk this morning in hideous conditions. Screaming wind. Wet. Cold. I gave some serious thought to crying as my eyes streamed onto my face and the wind chapped me there. Except crying would have just made for more chapping, so I soldiered on. I wasn't a happy girl when I got home to shower and get ready for work. But driving in, I was struck by how many of "those" trees are popping. For at this time of year, the cherry trees burst. There are pink and white varieties, and I describe them as exploding Q-tips. I passed hundreds of them. And this weekend is Daylight Savings Time. And the following weekend is the spring equinox. And the weekend after that . . . and so it goes.
