Watering the Grass

   “Have you seen the grass in the front yard?” asked my wife.

   Uh-oh, I thought to myself, here comes trouble. 

   Whenever my wife stands at the sliding door with her hands on her hips and asks me a question from forty feet away that has no answer in that particular tone of voice, I know trouble is coming. 

   I was sitting at the patio table, drinking a beer. It was a warm, sunny March afternoon, with spring in the air. We’d spent the day working in the garden, and I was tired. So I’d stopped, had a shower and was now trying to relax with a beer.

   “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to be pleasant and feigning interest.

   (Like a good husband must now and then.)

   “Nothing,” she answered. 

   The expression on her face said it wasn’t ‘nothing.’

   “Then why ask me?” I said. It was silly of me to say that, but I can’t help being logical, even when the occasion is all wrong and it’s the last thing I should be. 

   Which probably isn’t very logical, now that I think about it.

   “I was just in the front yard and it’s as dry as a bone!” she said. 

   Everywhere we’ve ever been, in any type of weather, she notices and points out the poor, dry, under-watered plants that are perishing all around us. To her, no matter the geography or climate, everything is always as dry as a bone. I call her, usually behind her back but sometimes not, the Water Queen.

   “What would you like me to do about it?” I asked, still trying to smile. 

   “Have you seen it?” she insisted.

   “Maybe it’s brown from the frost we had last month,” I suggested. 

   “No. It’s dry. I was out there working and I can see it’s dry!”

   “Well, why don’t you turn on the irrigation and water it, then?”

   She didn’t answer. 

   “You water everything in the yard except the grass,” I said. “What’s so different about the grass? If it needs it, water it!”

   “I’m not watering your grass,” she responded simply. I suppose, because I mow and tend it, that in her eyes it’s my grass. 

   “So, are you scolding me for not watering it?” I said. “Or telling me what to do? You know I hate being ordered about and told what to do!”

   “I’m not telling you anything,” she said.

   “Then what are you saying?” I ask.

   “I’m just saying it needs watering.”

   “I’ve done enough for today,” I responded, which however true, was in retrospect another silly thing to say. Why can’t I just smile and nod at her when she complains about things?

   “So have I!” she answered, her voice rising. “I’ve been working all day!”

   “I’m not denying that. You’ve worked very hard. And it looks beautiful, too. But why mention it if you don’t want me to do anything about it?”

   “Forget it!” she said angrily, and walked away.

   But now I want to know. What is she complaining about? What does she want of me? 

   (You see, I actually like to please my wife and do things for her. It’s one of the ways I show my love.)

   I got up, leaving my beer, and followed her inside. Which in retrospect was another silly thing to do.

   We met in the kitchen. “Why did you mention it, if you don’t want anything?” I asked.

   “Why don’t you go and have a smoke?” she sneered. “It’ll make you feel better!”

  “I’m trying to give it up, remember?” I said. 

   (She was right. It probably would make me feel better. It had been eight weeks and three and a half days since my last joint. But who’s counting?) 

   “Why don’t you show a little support when I’m trying to quit,” I suggested. “Instead of throwing it in my face? You complained when I smoked, now you complain when I don’t!”

   She had no answer for that, it being true, so she changed tack. “I’ll call you when the dinner is ready!” she hissed. “That’s all you want! To hear the dinner bell!”

   “Huh? What?” Now it was me that had no answer. I’d asked her earlier if she wanted to go out for dinner. She’d said no. She had dinner all planned, she said. She likes to cook. And she’s a good cook, too. 

   But when she’s angry, I’m a bastard for eating it.

  “You’re escalating this!” I said. “What has the dinner bell got to do with watering the blasted grass!” I was losing my temper. “We don’t even have a dinner bell! You’re just bitching now!”

   That, even without retrospect, was another bloody stupid thing of me to say.

   “You’re not fighting fair!” she accused.

   “Is it fair to throw smoking in my face? Or to get snarky about dinner?” 

   “If you’re acting like this now,” she said sarcastically, “I can’t wait for you to fuck up our vacation like you always do!”

   “What?” I was dumbstruck. I hadn’t seen that one coming.

   “Yeah!” she said, sensing the upper hand. “You always fuck up our vacations!”

   “I don’t fuck it up all by myself,” I insisted. “We do that together!”

   “Oh?” she asked with a superior air. “What about Thailand?”

   “That elephant stepped on my foot on purpose!” I argued. “I’d run out of bananas!”

   “And Hawaii?”

   “Who knew I was about to sit on a sea turtle in that rocky pool? I’ve still got the scar on my ass where it bit me!”

   “Italy?”

   “Those stray dogs in Pompeii attacked me without warning! It was the marinara sauce I’d spilled on my pants at lunch! Remember?”

   “France?”

   “I’d never tried absinthe before. And the elevator ride to the top of the tower made me dizzy!”

   “Spain?”

   “I didn’t know the bulls were running that day!”

   “Mexico?”

   “Ah!” I said. “Someone pushed me into that cenote!”

   “New Zealand?”

   “That glacier was slippery! I blame global warming for that!”

   “Australia?”

   “Crazy kookaburras! I was lucky to escape with my life! You’d figure a golf course was safe enough! But when that cassowary started to attack …”

   Etc etc all over the world. 

   Yes, I lead an adventurous life!

   I ended up going out to dinner after all.

Elephant Zen

My zen and I rode an elephant.

In Thailand last year.

Thailand is a place that is blessed with an abundance of good zen

And many breathtaking temples.

The people are very friendly also.

I recommend you and your zen go there sometime.

Anyway, about this elephant.

Her name was Malai.

A name which means garland of flowers.

Before she would be rode she must be fed.

A few bunches of bananas.

By the fistful.

To get to know her.

Have you ever stuck your hand in an elephant’s mouth?

It’s an experience with plenty of zen!

Then your elephant must be inspected.

It’s not like a motorcar.

That you just climb into and be off.

You have to check your animal’s health

Before taking it for a spin.

With elephants I learned you inspect their toenails.

That’s were they perspire, apparently.

Then you go around back.

And you break apart and have a look at its dung.

My elephant was healthy.

According to its toenails and its shit.

And its handler.

Who checked these things with me,

Me being a dumb tourist,

To make sure I got it right.

Because you don’t fuck around with something as big as an elephant.

That’s the zen of it!

The handler tapped her behind the knee with a little stick.

And barked a command.

Malai bent down.

I climbed up her trunk and sat behind her massive head

With my feet tucked behind her enormous ears.

From this position I was to steer her with my knees

And the utterance of the correct command 

In Thai.

For how would an Asian elephant

Rescued from slavery in the teak forests of Cambodia

Know English?

I’m surprised she knew Thai.

Malai would not go where I wanted her to go,

But suited herself.

She paid no attention to me at all,

But wandered slowly down the mountain path with surprising agility

For a creature so big,

Eating the vegetation she encountered along the way.

I gave up any attempt at commanding her and sat back, as it were,

And enjoyed the ride.

It's a unique experience to sit atop an elephant
As she descends a mountain path
In beautiful Thailand.
Malai enjoyed her bath afterwards.
Me too.

I stood with her in the river and scrubbed her back with a stiff broom.

While from her trunk

She playfully sprayed me with river water,

Accidentally on purpose.

She was a sly one, that Malai,

And appeared to enjoy a joke.

I wonder who sits atop her head today?

And if she’s ignoring their commands too?

Elephants and zen share many traits.

I can think of many but this is the one I want you to remember.

Are you ready?

Here it is.

Elephants and zen can do any damn thing they please.

You are just along for the ride.

So stop worrying!

Everything’s going to be okay.

Your zen knows what it’s doing.

Listen to the zen within you.

And try to do what’s right.

With zen as your guide

You’ll get to where you need to go.

And of course, 

Don’t forget to enjoy it.

Midnight Garden Supply

   There’s a freeze warning on for tonight. 

   I live in central Florida, so a freeze warning is not unheard of. It usually happens once or twice a year, but last year we didn’t have any. I put that down to global warming, as I do most things, but I could be wrong. It’s supposed to drop to thirty degrees Fahrenheit tonight, which may not sound cold if you’re from Boston or Chicago, but it’s cold to a Floridian. So my wife is concerned for the Areca palm in our backyard. It’s a tropical palm, and could be damaged from the cold.

   She’s already covered every plant in the yard that has any kind of sentimental value to her, whether they were cold-sensitive or not. These include specimens transplanted from her childhood home in Alabama (where they’d survived uncovered for decades in colder temperatures than we ever saw), plants taken from every botanical garden we’d ever visited from Miami, Florida to Victoria, British Colombia (she’d take a cutting or pull up a choice specimen while I nervously kept a lookout, acting casually by whistling a tune with my hands in my pockets) and even plants taken from our trips overseas, including Hawaii, New Zealand, Australia, Jamaica, Mexico, Spain, Thailand, France, etc. How she was never caught smuggling them back into the country, I couldn’t say.

   It was something I found impossible to understand, her compulsion to steal plants. For that’s what I thought it was, stealing, and of course she couldn’t understand why I wasn’t more understanding.

   “You smoke dope, don’t you?” she asked sarcastically. “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

   “Yeah,” I answered. “But I don’t dig it up from my dealer’s front yard, do I? Besides, it’s not whether it’s illegal or not, it’s the morality of it.”

   “You read too many books!” she snarled. That was her answer for everything. Like I was a fool for reading books in my attempt to wise up and not be a fool.

   “Why don’t you just buy them?” I asked her. “Why steal them?”

   “It’s only a plant,” she answered. “I’m not hurting anyone. Nobody will miss it.”

   “What if everybody did it?” I replied. “There’d be no plants left.” I looked around the botanical garden she was pilfering from and gestured, adding, “This beautiful garden we’re standing in would be reduced to rubble.”

   “Oh, you’re being silly.”

   “How would you like it if someone took one of your plants?”

   “It’s not the same thing!” she insisted. 

   “What about the golden rule?”

   She had no answer for that, not believing herself bound by anyone else’s rules, golden or not, but I knew what she’d do if she caught someone digging up a plant from her yard. She’d kill them! Then she’d hang the mutilated body in a prominent place as a warning to others. Her yard and garden, unlike everyone else’s, were sacrosanct. You should have heard her tell off a neighbor who had dared to let his dog do some business on her grass! (The grass which I tend and mow, by the way.) After discovering some droppings, she’d got down on her knees, inspecting and counting them, noting how many times some dirty rotten so-and-so had allowed his mutt to despoil her property. 

  “I know who it is!” she told me. “It’s the fat guy with the big Alsatian.” 

   “Are you sure?” I teased. “Maybe it’s the old lady with the Dachshund. Or the kid with the Yorkshire terrier.”

   “Don’t be an ass,” she accused me. “No Dachshund poops that big!”

   She was scientific about it, I’ll give her that.

   Then she’d lain in wait, getting up early to peep through the curtains at any passersby, hoping to catch them in the act.

  “There he is!” said called one morning a week later. “See! I told you!”

   “Where?” said I, sipping my tea. It was early in the morning. She pointed through the window. It wasn’t the guy with the Alsatian or the kid with the Yorkie, but our new neighbor, a thin, quiet young man with a Dalmatian on the end of a leash. Sure enough, about two feet from the sidewalk on the grass of our front yard was the Dalmatian, hunched over and straining, crapping it’s heart out.

   Why do they name dogs after regions, I wonder?

   Boy, did she tear him a new one! Our new neighbor I mean, not the Dalmatian. She rushed out in her housecoat and slippers and scared him half to death. I stayed inside, too embarrassed to show my face, peeping through the curtains and drinking my tea. 

   Afterwards the neighbor slunk away, turning back occasionally with a quizzical look. His dog apparently couldn’t have cared less, and trotted merrily along at his side. 

   “See! I told you!” said told me when she returned. She was proud of herself to have caught him, and happy to have the chance to give someone (other than me) a piece of her mind. 

  

   As I mentioned earlier, it’s going to be cold tonight. 

   So she wants to cover the Areca palm. It’s a big, clumping palm with many trunks, and impossible to cover with just a sheet.

   “I know you don’t want to help me,” she said. She’s always telling me what I am or am not, or what I’m thinking or feeling. But she doesn’t know. We’ve been married fifteen years, and I believe she knows less about me now than when we began.

  “What?” I answered. “Didn’t I come out here and ask if you needed any help?” That was true. From my office window I’d seen her struggling with it by herself, and had come out to help. “You certainly didn’t ask for help, did you? No, you’re too proud for that.” She really is proud. And stubborn, too. 

  “I know you don’t want to help me,” she’d said. This was after an hour of us pulling and lifting and climbing and cursing, without result. She had no plan as to how the palm might be covered, and so we had had no success. As my old boss at EMI Records in South Africa used to say; “To fail to prepare is to prepare to fail.” He was full of sayings like that. But that’s another story. 

   Regarding the Areca palm, I knew enough to keep my mouth shut. My wife hates being told anything, even if you’re trying to be helpful.

   The only note of levity all afternoon was when I fell off the ladder and knocked over a bird feeder. 

   You should have seen her rush to see if the bird feeder was alright!