In which my lawn... and my sinuses... runneth over

I killed my lawnmower.
I didn't mean to. I didn't know any better. How was I supposed to know that my mower couldn't handle these newfangled ethanol gasolines? I don't even pay attention to whether or not the gas I put in my car has ethanol, much less my lawnmower. But apparently the mower doesn't like it and now refuses to run.

Or rather, refused to run two weeks ago and continues to refuse to run. Meanwhile, my lawn had almost achieved tallgrass prairie preserve status until yesterday when my dear old dad paid my dear cousin Mike to come by with his lawn gear and bushwhack it. I'm almost surprised he got out alive. Lord knows what was living in that jungle! My dad and I hauled the mower to the shop on Saturday. It will be another week and a half or more before I get it back. Don't know what I'm going to do in another week, but for now at least it looks civilized again.

My sinuses, alas, are anything but. After a full Z-pack, ending last Friday, I expected to be right as rain again, but they are unbudged. Despite all my decongestant cocktails and neti pot tea ceremonies, I'm still feeling like an elephant with a bowling ball up its trunk. I don't think I've been this congested since I was pregnant with Grayson!

I'm not alone, at least. I hear a lot of folks complaining of sinus and other allergy woes. The cottonwoods are cottoning. There are places where it looks like snow coming down. My air conditioner was full of it last weekend. Sadly, that wasn't the only problem with the thing, because it is still functioning at only about 2/3 capacity.

But all these seasonal woes aside, it looks like summer may have finally arrived! Grayson has only three days of school left. My little yellow squash plants are out there in the garden busily making little yellow squashes. And last Sunday was the first of the Summer Breeze concerts in the park.

One of the great things about living in Norman is the free outdoor concerts. They are well attended and festive and fun -- with a wonderful hippy dippy atmosphere that just makes you feel like a kid again. Everyone brings blankets and lawnchairs and coolers and dogs and spreads out on the grass. Kids run around everywhere. There are glow sticks and hula hoops and plates of hummus and bottles of wine. It's summer in Norman!

Sunday night Grayson and I went to the concert with a group of friends from Leadership Norman. There was a touch of sadness because last year I attended these concerts with Bob. I kept expecting to see him, but didn't. Haven't laid eyes on him since the break up. It's entirely possible that it will be months before I see him again... or never. It makes me sad, but I don't know what else I could do. He told me once that he's not friends with any of his former girlfriends. Not one. He thought it bizarre that I consider several of my former romantic partners as friends, many as very dear friends. I suppose someday I'll be able to count G among that number. Not now, though. Not yet.

Every time I begin to feel comfortable with him again, something else happens to spoil it. There's always some fresh shit waiting to be stepped in.

Lately that's been the theme of every part of my life, it seems! I keep stepping in it in one way or another. But surely I'm on my way to getting clear of all that negative energy. I had certainly come to a dark and tangled wood, but it seems like there may be a clear patch ahead. Summer is here, after all, with all its lightness and warmth and opportunities for friends and fun and relaxation. Next weekend I'll put a pool up for G-rex, and another for the dogs to play in.

Speaking of dogs... Roxy's family came to visit her on Sunday afternoon. I hadn't seen them since October or November. Actually, Becky - Roxy's mom - dropped by quite out of the blue about two weeks ago one weekday afternoon when I happened to be home for lunch. That was the first visit in months, and friends had begun to warn me that they thought Roxy was never going back to her original family. After this last visit, however, I begin to have more faith that she will. Becky brought Michael, the oldest son, to whom Roxy really belongs, and Rox was clearly very glad to see them both. Becky's working again, and tells me she hopes that before too much longer they'll be able to find another home and take Roxy back.

I'll actually miss her, in some ways. She's a sweet, if neurotic, dog. And I know Flower and Kobi will miss playing with her. But it will be easier with just my two girls around. I might be able to try it again with the chickens. And I told Grayson to think about what sort of small pet he might want to replace poor missing Mambo. I'm not willing to risk it with Roxy in the house, but after she goes home, I think there's much less chance of a small furry pet being killed by Flower or Kobi. I'll encourage Grayson to choose something a little more active than a reptile this time. A hamster or rat or bird. Something a little more interactive. Mambo was cool but, frankly, boring. He just sat there on his stick, looking bored. I felt sorry for him a lot of the time. I can't help wondering about him and worrying. I still look for him every time go out into the yard. I hope, if he's still alive, he's at least having a good time out there.

Born Free

On Sunday we took Tuttle-tuttle down to the creek behind Grayson's school and set her free. Yes, she's a she. I sent photos of her to one of our herpetology curators here at the museum and he told me she is a female eastern box turtle or "three-toed turtle," and probably around 20 years old. I was surprised she was so old. I had counted the "rings" on her shell scutes and estimated her age at around 11 or 12, so I was way off. It looks like they live about 40 years or so.

Anyway, I held onto her through the weekend so Grayson could be present when we released her, and she kept me pretty busy. I kept her in a big plastic bin in Grayson's room at night, but set her loose in the yard with me when I was doing yard work. I had to keep watching her, though, because she was bound and determined to head East. No matter where I put her, or what obstacles I put in her path, she ended up cruising up and down the east fence, driving the neighbor's dog, Sammy, nuts. Our dogs – even Roxy – weren't all that fascinated with her, but Sammy was obsessed. So when the barking started, I was obliged to stop what I was doing, go over there, pick up the turtle, and take her back across the yard. I even tried to keep her inside the garden fence, but before I knew it, she had found a way out and off she went again: headed East.

It was fun having her around, and we considered building some sort of enclosure to keep her safely in our yard. But when I realized how old she was, and how long she'd been out there in the wild, making do very nicely on her own, thank-you-very-much... well, I just couldn't keep her against her will. So we took her to the creek and set her down and bid her a fond farewell as she trundled off... headed East.

At least she had no doubts about where she wanted to go. I can't always say the same for me. Maybe Tuttle-tuttle's arrival in my life was a little nudge to pull into my shell a bit, get grounded, and look at things close-up. That turtle may not have been fast, but she was determined, dogged, and unafraid. Sammy's barking, and our dogs' sniffing and pawing, didn't phase her a bit. She barely spared them a glance. She pulled in if they got too rough, and ignored them otherwise. Kept her feet moving and her eyes on the prize.

I'm a quick-fix person. If things go wrong, or if I'm not happy, I want to do something to fix it. Right now. I want to take action and get results, immediately. Turtle-walking is just not my style. But lately I think I'm so busy taking action to "fix" my life that I don't even know what direction I'm headed, much less which direction I want to go. Maybe if I slow down and pull into my shell for awhile, I can come up with one.

A Night On the Bus

I spent four hours last night riding the 2nd Friday trolley around Norman, giving out chocolate in honor of the opening of the exhibition, which is today. For those outside the area: on the 2nd Friday of every month, the Norman galleries, museums and music venues host the 2nd Friday Circuit of Art. There are openings, performances, and a general sense of Happening around the old downtown area and campus corner. The public transit system, CART, provides a trolley that makes a loop around the area every half hour from 6 to 10 p.m. For $2, you can get on and off the trolley as many times as you like, all evening long.

And that's where I was, parked on the bench behind my driver, Al, with a basket of chocolate in my hands and a big banner announcing the exhibition "Chocolate" behind me. For four hours I rode in a circle around Norman, greeted riders with free chocolates as they boarded, and chatted with people between stops.

You learn a lot about people when you ride the bus all evening. The 2nd Friday trolley is like a little traveling village. Folks get on for a few stops, are joined by others for a stop or two and then disembark. They are replaced by new faces, or maybe some returning villagers from earlier in the evening. I was there for all of them. I'd say "hey! Welcome back!" and chat with them or their kids, ask questions about how the evening was going, talk about the exhibit. Everyone has a story to tell.

I met an older couple who inspect fire gear on the buses. The man was quite garrulous, and picked up his conversation without missing a beat each time they re-boarded the bus. He told me about the chocolate houses he makes at the holidays with his grandkids, where in Oklahoma you can go for the best fossil hunting, how to dig selenite crystals on the salt plains so you get the biggest clusters. I told them where to go for rose rocks on Draper Lake (thanks, Bob), and encouraged them to join the museum so they could come to Members Night.

I met a couple with a daughter about 7 or 8 who were museum members and talked with me about how much they enjoy visiting, and chimed in on other conversations as they ebbed and flowed. I met a man who was a former courier for DHL and Fed Ex who told me he had been looking to get a part-time job at the museum and wondered if anything was coming open this summer. As the provider of Free Chocolate, I had a particular appeal to kids, and two separate little girls made a point of sitting beside me and chatting me up, showing me the tissue paper flowers they had made at the Fred Jones museum and asking shyly if they can have more chocolate. (of course they can)

Most talkative of all, however, was my driver, Al. Al is a big man with a white buzz-cut and a gentle nature. He's been driving buses of one kind of another for an accumulated 31 years. He's a retired airforce radio man, went to Korea, did five tours of Vietnam, and has visited all 50 states and 52 countries. (To be fair, he told me when he was in the airforce if they landed on an airbase in a country, they counted it as "visiting.")

He asked if I was married, and when I told him I was divorced he said he was sorry, and I said thanks, that it has been tough, but we would be fine. "Well, that statement there is why I know you will be fine," he said. He said that he understood how difficult it was because his first wife cheated on him while he was in Korea, so they got divorced. He got a record of medical tests in the mail from their doctor, and couldn't make out what they meant, so he took them to the doc on base, who reluctantly interpreted them for him: "You have to promise me you're not going to tear up my desk," he said first, then: "your wife has contracted a social disease."

"So we went through a divorce," he told me. "I guess she just couldn't be without somebody."

He's been married to his second wife for 29 years, which is how long he has been in Norman. When I told him my great-grandparent's names, he knew more about my family than I did: who was married to who, who was dead, who moved away.

As we rode – the first two loops were completely devoid of other passengers – he pointed out where all the stops were and commented on the route and the traffic. The trolley is old and rattles and "drives like a freight train," he told me. When he had to make a right turn he always swung wide to keep from hitting the curb, and would encourage drivers at the intersecting street who were signaling a right turn to go ahead and turn ahead of him so he wouldn't have to cut it any closer. He'd talk to people: "Come on. No, no, just go ahead. I'm trying to give you room."

He kept a mental talley of his passengers, and worried on the last loop that one man with his three daughters hadn't gotten back on to return to where he first picked them up. "I hate to think I'd left anyone stranded," he said. And he told me about regular passengers he has on his day route: a professor who spends every other week in Dallas; a ten-year-old boy who always catches the bus from his middle school down to the Weather Center where his mother works, and the drivers all know him and watch for him. "We look after him," he said. "We may be a bunch of worried old hens, but we know he's supposed to be on that 4:00 bus, and if he's not then we start to look for him."

At a light on campus corner he commented "must be Friday night in Norman." And when I asked him what he meant he told me there was a pair of men (said slightly archly, with a "you know what I mean" tone) who, at some point on every Friday night, came out of Louie's on the corner of Asp and Boyd and went down the block into another bar. "Every single Friday, just like clockwork. You know it's Friday if you see them. You know, people have patterns they run, even if they think they don't."

Well, if anyone would know about patterns, it would be a bus driver. Around and around he goes, noticing what's the same and what's different, memorizing the faces and the habits, chatting people up. It was an interesting evening. Tiring, but interesting. Never take your bus driver for granted.