Frenzied Daddy

Today, we are learning the concept of “in.” Baby K is walking and crawling around the house with a block in one hand and a book in the other. She reaches something (a discarded cup that held water, a garbage can) and she places the block “in” it. Then she tries the book. It doesn’t seem to stress her out when they don’t fit- not like when she’s trying to get the toy out of the toybox and it’s buried under stuff, where she yells and carries on until either she or we gets the toy out — she just copes and moves on to the next container.

I was chatting with her about “in” when I changed her today, and realized with a start that she has already mastered “out.” That explains the heaps of clothes in the bedroom next to the dresser. And she has “off” ready too- that explains the books next to the bookshelves.

There are, now, about fifteen of those huge paper composting lawn and refuse bags sitting on the back patio, where once grew blackberries, thistles, nightshade and what looked like wheat.

There are things, I realized, that I’ve always wanted to do and to be (do-be-do-be-do) that’ll never happen. Once apon a time, I wanted to be a civil planner and design parks. Well, dams and tunnels, but who ever heard of a park collapsing? And I love making quiet calm places. And, truth be told, I enjoyed my short stint working as a University of Oregon Housing Department Greenskeeper; I really liked the riding lawnmower.

Well, I’ll never be a park designer, but I can design my back yard. My in-laws sent us fifty dollars in Home Despot cards, so I went and bought some chemicals and some more tools (wooohoooo) and more of those obnoxious paper sacks. I’ve spent hours back there ripping out blackberries and morning glory and other noxious weeds.

This site has an interesting discussion about a ‘miracle’ herbicide; it lowers the pH of the soil to where the blackberries die. And when it’s all said and done, you toss some lime onto the stack and it goes back to being productive. I’d really like that, but Home Depot didn’t have any. I did learn that some people change the pH of their soil to make their hydrangas change color; but I had to settle for some Ortho ‘hose and go’ product.

Note to Davadam: Yeah, I know it’s chemical, and I’m not super thrilled about it. But I want the lawn to be parkesque in my lifetime, and I don’t think I’m up for tweazing out the morning glory three times a week.

No, I haven’t gotten hired; had interviews at PNCA, the City of Portland and ADP. The PNCA one was very promising, but as it turns out, they didn’t want me, they really really didn’t want me. Aah well, that’s what I get for wanting it so badly.

So, the quest is still on.

In other news, no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks — school’s out for summer! Miss B has a madcap collection of things to do this summer. Well, ok, not really. In fact, I’m considering making a jar; like a “cuss jar” where you drop a quarter in each time you cuss— although this jar would say “I’m Bored.” The only problem with that is she doesn’t have any quarters to drop in. Maybe I ought to figure out a way she can earn some ice cream money.

A catastrophe has happened to the Cat Trapper Journal linked in the last post; it’s gone missing. Reading her posts was cathartic; they helped me keep my life in perspective. At least I‘m not crawling around under houses in Eugene looking for feral cats. I hope she is ok; I hope she finds a way to bring her dreams around. It was daunting, seeing how much passion she has for cats, but inspiring as well.

… to say that I have passion and vision is a pale, watery expression of what this woman has been inspired with. Reading her posts, for someone who grew up with James Herriot (and a passle of other writers, to be sure) is mind-boggling. In her most recent adventure, she was crawling around in a low-rent tenament, under the house, through “muck and mire,” trying to catch a cat someone had adopted. Her descriptions of the cats, her scathing denouncements of some of the people she meets; it’s obvious that this woman overflows with emotions.

I wish I was in a different place in my life; a place where I could help her. She needs money, not only for the spaying and neutering and bathing and drug treatments she gets these cats, but also because a “cat trapper” isn’t on the list of the 500 best paying jobs, if you catch my drift. Empty promises, she doesn’t need- so I can’t offer her money “when I get a job” and I can’t offer to chauffer around the cats, (and I am not volunteering to trap cats from beneath a house ), but I can think good thoughts for her and worry about her when I can.