I’ve never understood the difference between “annual” and “perennial”.  Oh, I know what the WORDS mean, but I just don’t understand WHY they have their respective definitions.

Let me take this back a step before anyone starts sending me Greek or Latin derivations.

When we do something every year, we call it an annual event.  But certain plants which don’t return every year are called “annuals“.  Does that really make sense?

My mother rejected the notion that a plant should be discarded after a single season.  She would haul the potted plants into the house every fall, and in fact grew many of them right in the house, on shelves in the nine-window sunroom.  That room had been truncated by the installation of a sliding door closet.  At some point, she dismantled the closet and tore the drywall from in front of the windows at that end of the room to let sunlight shine from a third direction, the better to nourish the ivy, impatiens, begonias and succulents that she grouped on the shelves which my father built or assembled.

When  my mother died, my brother Stephen and I counted the plants in the sunroom.  Two-hundred sixty-two.  The siblings divided most of them among us; a few remained but did not survive my father’s haphazard ministration.

I have an annual ritual of buying plants on Mother’s day and potting them on the porch.  In the past, others in the household would be part of the ritual as my only request for Mother’s Day.  For several years, I’ve not had company during this pleasant undertaking.  But I didn’t complain; the world turns, things happen, people change.  Instead of sulking, I journeyed to Soil Service, filled my cart, and puttered away on my deck.  This spring, my friend Brenda and I made the Soil Service run together, happily encouraging each other to cultivate our gardens.  But I did the potting alone, sinking my hands into rich soil, quietly humming, letting the spring air fill my lungs.

Every fall, I drag into the house whichever plants  seem likely to last the winter indoors.  This year’s warm  autumn has left my porch plants blooming into November.  Yesterday I dead-headed the begonias and petunias which still seemed full of life and carefully cradled each one in the crook of my bad arm.  It took a half an hour to get the seven plants into the house but now their lingering beauty graces the tables and shelves of my home.

As I surveyed the cheerful aspect of my annuals, I decided that I get my relentless nature from my mother. I get a lot from my mother:  The shape of my body, the color of my hair, my fierce loyalty, my emotional myopia.  I’m content with all of this; though some of her traits have not served me well.  But I did like her hopeful outlook, demonstrated by what I’ve come to view as Mother’s definition of “annual”:  

Lasting year after year.

That’s me:  the annual woman.

When Brenda saunters up the stairs of the porch, I’m sitting in the dark living room with the flashlight app of my cell phone trained at the front door.  Brian has the electricity off while he wires the lights in the upstairs bathroom.  I’ve been talking to Paula K-V and watching for Brenda.

She helps me get into my sweater, then we crunch our way down the driveway through the spectacular blanket of dying leaves.  Our conversation makes the short drive to the grocery store seem even quicker.  Once we get there, Brenda commandeers a cart and strolls  along beside while I exclaim over avocados, oranges and yogurt.  I’ve not had groceries all week and plain white rice has lost its charm.

Back at the Holmes house, Brenda unloads, then I carefully back the Prius into the street to drive her to her own house.  She speculates about whether her cat has lost faith in her return.  We say goodnight, then I drive back just in time to exchange farewells with Brian, who stands in the back by his pick-up, packing his gear.

A half-hour later, I’m eating gluten-free pasta with sauteed mushrooms and sliced tomatoes.  I managed to hold the tomato with the flat side of my left hand while my right hand made the cuts with a small serrated knife.  I ate in front of Tiny House Hunting on HGTV, thinking, My upstairs room is going to be just like these tiny houses when Brian gets done.  This thought pleases me.  I’ve already started downsizing.  I need less; I like the clean, open rooms.

I realize that my legs lack the strength necessary to stand from the rocker without two good hands for a push-off.  Panic rises for a few minutes, then I figure out that I can steady my left side by contorting my elbow and mashing it against the arm of the chair.  Meanwhile the dog has started whining to be let out.  I open the back door, push the screen with the side of my foot, and scoot back just in time to avoid being knocked to the floor.  That would be tricky.  I’ve left my phone in my handbag, three rooms away, on the table by the front door.

I manage to collect the few dirty dishes under the faucet.  I get them all washed without splashing water on my wrist brace, and dry my right hand on the towel hanging from the stove.  By the time all that’s done, the stove clock has clicked to 8:15, and I’m trying to decide if it’s too early to go to bed.  I’ll write a bit, I tell myself, which, every writer knows, is code for fooling around on the internet until it seems late enough not to be considered a lightweight.

The house settles around me, quiet, dark.  I have to open the back door for the dog and set the alarm.  My hands, arms, and legs ache; I feel a pinch on my nose which makes me sorry that I left my old glasses in the car; my new ones might be adjusted too tightly.  But, on balance, I’m feeling all right.  I’m calling this day a single-handed success.  I had to struggle, but I’m not complaining.  It could be lots worse.

My friends Pat Reynolds and Joyce Kramer speculate that this concept of not complaining might be doing more harm than good. I understand at least Pat’s point: I could be turning my reaction inward, letting it work its corrosive damage. Other people’s conduct and choices weaken my faith in myself; rather than embracing acceptance of my worth, I hear only the old mantras.  Are you really going to wear that? Do you have to talk so loud? You’re so intense. Get yourself together. 

I trudge up my driveway, struggling, left hand once more in a brace, legs weak, heart heavy. I’ve greeted the carpenter with an assurance that life could be worse, so in truth it is good. But I remain unconvinced.

A flower peeks from the tangle of weeds under the deck. It fell from the railing two weeks ago, its clay pot smashed. I left it to die, but it refused to succumb.  I gaze at it for a few minutes. Then I shoulder my bag and move towards the front door.  I turn the corner just in time to see the last glow of the setting sun over the neighbor’s home.  I pause at the steps to my porch and watch the rays dance across the crimson maple leaves.  Just for me, this beauty; no one else stands beholding this.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I plan to persevere. Life continues.

I’ve included a link with other posts to Kasey Chambers’ song “Not Pretty Enough“.  Some of my friends reject its message.  But it speaks to me.  It echoes what I have asked a thousand times, a hundred ways, in many strangled voices.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my father-in-law’s death.  In his honor, I am reposting my entry from that day.

It’s Wednesday, November 4, 2015.  Last year, November 4th fell on Tuesday.  I sat by my favorite curmudgeon’s side watching the election and holding his hand.  On Monday, November 3rd, I had fulfilled one of Jay’s last wishes, cajoling the Johnson County Election Board into commissioning me as a ballot assistant, giving me a ballot, and allowing me to be the person who assisted Jabez MacLaughlin in casting his last vote.

Jay slept while his Republicans swept countless elections but I’m sure he could hear me report success after success of the party in which he believed and which he wanted to prevail.

Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of the death of my favorite curmudgeon.  I had only a five-year claim on Jay, but I owe him more than our short relationship would typically seem to warrant.  Jay accepted me; he loved me; he took me into his heart even though he disagreed with most of my political positions and all of my social ones.

Jay’s children and grandchildren have the first place in the mourning line.  He talked to me of how much he valued each of his children and their offspring, sometimes telling me his thoughts and feelings which he could not express to those more dear to his heart.  He missed his wife, who had died a year before him; he ruminated about their relationship to me almost as though he was speaking outloud to his inner soul.

When I entered Jay’s room on the morning of November 3, 2014, he took my hand and said, “I’m not going to get to vote, am I honey?”  We had been trying to get a ballot for some time and he did not believe it would ever arrive.  But I had not surrendered, and several hours later, I helped him vote for candidates whom I myself would never have chosen.  Each time I read an entry in the ballot, he’d respond, “vote for the Republican”, and so I did.  He scrawled his name at the end of the ballot and then fell silent, a satisfied smile on his weary face.

I’ll make a visit to his resting place tonight or tomorrow.  I’ll trace his name and the date of his death — November 5, 2014 —  on the granite stone.  I’ll thank him, again, for teaching me so much.  Though in my heart, I’ll lament my inability to honor the lessons he wanted to impart, at his graveside I won’t complain about anything.  As I promised, I will bring a cocktail and toast his life, pouring the contents on his resting place.  Then I will go back to the Prius which Jay’s son gave me when Jay died, the one his Joanna drove, and I’ll make my way home.

My cousin Kati and I found a book while in college that bore the title, “I’m in training to be tall and beautiful”.  As neither of us were tall, that title resonated with us.  Though admittedly, Kati qualified for the title of “lovely” much more so than I.

I don’t feel beautiful, lovely, pretty, or even the slightest bit attractive most days.  And I understand that I’ve got a box of rocks that I’ve carried around with me since my toddler days that cause my face to contort and my demeanor to warp.

In cleaning out the attic, I found a bunch of papers and pictures that chronicle both the accumulation of the stones which burden me and the angels which guide and buffer me.  As I take each one from the dusty bed in which they lie, I wonder if a tall and beautiful woman would have jettisoned these souvenirs long ago.  Would someone with better  posture and fewer grey hairs, with stronger bones and a calmer disposition have felt the need to box these mementos and drag them from attic to attic?

Among the discoveries, I came upon a picture of my baby brother asleep with his infant daughter cradled against his shoulder.  As I took it from amidst the twenty-year-old bank records in which it had been inexplicably kept, I found myself gasping for breath.  Of all the people whom I wanted to save, Stephen looms the largest.  I know he chose his death; I know that I could not, truly, have stopped him.  But nonethless, I know I am still haunted by the thought that I might have helped.

A tall and beautiful woman might have known what to do.  Maybe.  So I’m in training to be tall and beautiful because I have failed too many people and my heart cannot take any more regret.

Stephen Patrick Corley with one of his two daughters. Out of respect to her, I will not name her; but I know he loved her and missed her. I want to lay him to rest; I know his death haunts me and that my grief still weighs me down. Fare thee well, Stevie Pat. I love you more than words can tell.

Summer and autumn waned without my completely addressing the deep-set dirt in the crevices of my house.  I had a thorough cleaning in March but since then, dust has accumulated and clutter has reclaimed the surfaces that I cannot reach.

As fall bore down, I began to realize that my lungs filled with smog each night as I slept.  I found myself awakening in the darkened bedroom gasping and gagging, eerily reminiscent of twenty years ago long before my asthma diagnosis and treatment.  I noticed the swirls of dust on the floor; the murky mirrors; the grey pallor of my china angels.  My home lies trapped under the heavy neglect of my distracted existence.

When construction commenced on the rehab of my attic and upstairs halfbath, the need for cleaning surpassed critical.  I started the process this weekend.  I filled a trash bag with bank records to be shredded and the recycle box with useless material that contained nothing personal or sensitive — old computer manuals, book lists, hand-outs from long-forgotten workshops.

From the first round of sorting, I saved a small collection:  a handful of my son’s early school work, a fistful of letters, and a smattering of photographs.  In the midst of my Saturday, I found a letter from my deceased brother, a picture of our first dog, and a photograph of myself with a pager clipped to my high-waisted jeans.

I sank into a chair holding my brother’s letter, feeling the tears gathering in my eyes.  With one finger, I traced his closing signature:  Love always, Your baby bro, Steve.  I read and re-read the paragraphs about our father; about Steve’s drug use; about the bridges burned and the hopelessness felt.  I checked the date: 1986, eleven years before his suicide.  Oh Stevie Pat, why could I not have seen?  I carefully re-folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope.

A little deeper into the box, I found a card made for my son’s 7th birthday by our friends, the Taggarts; a picture of two Tucans; an Easter card from my mother; and a couple of pictures of my son.  These disparate items come from different decades.  I don’t recall storing them together.  I think they must have been collected during some previous purge, treasured items culled from different strata of my life’s debris.

Today I will tackle the grime.  I’ll move the living room furniture and sweep away the accumulated dog hair missed from the cursory passes with a lazy broom wielded by my tired hands over these last few months.  I’ll spray the furniture and wipe away the dust on the shelves where my angels stand.  I know more dust will accumulate as the upstairs project moves forward and the carpenter shapes the walls of my new closet and shower.  But I need the clean air now; I need to breathe; I need to fill my lungs with purity and light.

Time to tie up my hair and put on old sweat-pants.  Winter-cleaning commences.  No time for recriminations and regret.  I’ve done my best by the past and by those who cross my path each day.  To any whom I have failed, I can only offer my sweetest smile, and a place at my table when its surface has been cleared, the tea is poured and the cakes are served.