Alone

It isn't the knowing that she's alone. Nor even the being alone. It can feel good, and it can be good, to be alone. It's the knowing that at the end of it, she'll still be alone. She's alone right now and she will continue to be alone. She must seek someone out to break that aloneness, and then take care not to overstay her welcome. It's the knowing that there will be no one at the end of the day to hear of her adventures and discoveries.

The walking alone isn't the bad thing. It's picking up that shard, and knowing there's no one to show it to later, someone who used to be so pleased and interested.

It isn't that there's no one to share these excitements with. It's that there's no one special, no one who asks, who really wants to know. There's no one whose eyes light up while internal laughter lifts the corners of his lips upon hearing the antics of dog and woman on the shore.
Sure, there are friends out there. And they're sympathetic. And they'd listen. They might even find a laugh in the story. But it doesn't really matter to them. It doesn't enrich their lives, hearing these small stories of small occurances. It fine if she shows up to chat, but it doesn't matter if she doesn't.

It isn't that she doesn't know people care. They do care, and she appreciates that. It's the knowing that she's just one of a bunch, just like all the other bananas on the branch. No one is waiting for her call. No one is waiting for her to come home. And she no longer has anyone to wait for either. She is no longer welcome to call.

It isn't that she doesn't appreciate the sympathy. Let anyone tell me that sympathy or even empathy takes the place of knowing she's The One, she's special, she's looked for. Sure, they commiserate with the pain in the night, but the balm that was there, the soothing hand, the exact amount of gentle understanding isn't there. It's the knowing that it never will be there.
It isn't that she thinks she's the only one to suffer this grief. She knows others have too, and worse. The knowledge does not lessen that pain. For her, the thought of a group of grievers is not relief. If anything, it a vision of larger pain. Too many of us thrust into a sadness we didn't expect to bear.

It isn't that she can't bear it. She can. It isn't that she can't cope. She can. It isn't that she's starving, or dying, or devastatingly alone in all the world. She knows there are worse sufferings. But this is her suffering. This is her, knowing someone is out there, not alone, but choosing to not be with her, and she is alone. There is no pulling up her bootstraps. There is no tossing it all aside. There is sorrow, loneliness, existing, waiting, healing and reopening of wounds.

There is the knowing that once, one person made her feel unique in all the world. And now he's gone.

Sunny’s Survey
1. What would you like to do before you die? (Or leave this life and Earth as we know it.)
2. Where would you like to go before life as we know it ends?
3. Why don’t you do or go to the above?
4. If you were given (I know, this is an old, old question) only a limited time to live, would you do or go?
5. Why don’t you do or go anyway?
6. Is it really that important to live life the way you live it today?
7. Could you use your current finances differently, in order to do and go to the above?
8. Would you use your current money for the above?
9. Will you? If not, why not?

Settle Down Now

You must "settle down". Why is one told this? What are the benefits of "settling down"? To "settle": to put in order; put firmly in place; to free of agitation or disturbance; to establish residence; to establish a permanent home or occupation; to come to a decision; TO START LIVING A REGULAR ORDERLY LIFE....... there's more.... To apply steady effort or attention.

Hm. These sound like some good things to do. But why is this better? Why is this considered best? The "right" way to live? Now, we could eliminate some. For example, the Masai of Africa. Traditionally a wandering tribe, they are not firmly in place, but they do apply steady effort and attention. But it wouldn't be considered a regular, orderly life here in North America.

So place must have some bearing on "settling". Look at some of the other explanations of the word settle: to cause to subside, sink, or compact (as in ashes or dregs). These sound sort of like a....downer. Unless you're the liquid that the dregs are settling in. Then it all becomes quite clear.

So, to the point, if one does "settle down" as in 1. To start living a regular, orderly life, esp. after a period of wandering or irresponsibility, if one does as above, how is this better than, say, wandering? One can wander without being irresponsible. Bills are paid, cat is fed, house is insured and maintained. Then one wanders.

Why is it better to "settle", be polite in a community of UNlike minded persons. Exist in a world of distance among fellow existers. How is going to the job (you may like or dislike in varying degrees), sweeping the floor after work, karaoke on Saturday night, sleep in on Sunday, long for those two or three weeks off each year so you can "get away"....... How is that life? If that is "settling", and settling is life, I don't want it. You can have it. She's no good for me.

Where is the wild?

Nine bean rows... Will I die in this urban life? Will I ever be in the wild again? Where is the quiet, and the dark? Where does the water flow with joy and peace, clean and fresh? Why must it be this way? Why do I not adapt? Why does it not change, or progress? Why don't I progress? Where will it end? How will I carry on, and on, and on? Thinking of all the others who are thrust into horrid lives, through no choice of their own making, I cringe at my own weakness and apparent unappreciation. Of all the pleasantries of urban existence. Sometimes the tiger will just lay down and die. Mostly, her body forces her to eat and breathe. The lucky one escapes, even though locked behind the bars, with the faces staring in and the lights all on, always. There is no more wild, but in her heart, she sees the wild.

The photo that didn't make it........

This one's for you, Shirley. It can't match any of yours, but you're such a good friend for asking!

Communiques

So my daughter got sucked into the blogger vortex! HOW can we POSSIBLY keep up Facebook, Hotmail, AND blogging? Along with all the other projects that we are more or less consistently pursuing. Answer: not gonna happen. But I can tell you this, what we put our minds to, we do well. We are excellent. That's not bragging, it's fact. Just reading along in Daniel this morning, and realized my prayer wasn't "Lord make me excellent" it is "Lord make me MORE excellent". You've come a long way baby. My inner thought used to be, "Lord I am lower than dirt". Dad used to tell me to look in the mirror every day and tell myself I was a good person and I like me. Couldn't do it. Well, I still find that a bit.... silly? The point is, realize the inner truth you're really thinking about yourself. Then if it's negative, get rid of it! Take up a belief in something positive about yourself. Discard false humility and embrace the good and great that God put within you. Sure, it's not all good, but there's surely more good than bad! I recall that bloody cream pie incident. The fridge was full, I guess. The men ate the pie anyway, just as they ate the kamakazi pie my daughter created. Philosophical question: what is it with men and cream pies?? Send along your opinions. We (she and I) continue to make cream pies for men, as well as many other concoctions. Willingly and with joy on the part of the daughter/chef. Most unwillingly and with resignation on the part of the mama. Creations eated with greater or lesser degrees of gusto by men. I've stopped beating myself up over cooking failures or faliures to cook. I do not accept negative comments about my cooking. When I want critiquing, I ask and accept. Moans, complaints, suggestions for change-discarded. Don't like it? Cook it yourself. Works good. Harvest crews and construction crews tend to devour with delight. And so it should be. I've gotta go. Margherita pizza and squash soup for supper.

Prince Edward Island waterfront cottage and gardens for sale

Hey everybody! Hopefully this computer dyslexic writer will enable the link to this property to show up on this site. I'll give it a try...........

World Property Links Directory


There it is. Check it out and tell your friends. Gorgeous property for sale in a fantastic location.

Dog Slobber

Have you ever noticed how dog slobber doesn't desolve in dishwater? You actually have to use friction to get it off the plate. Maybe this is why dog slobber helps wounds to heal. Why doesn't someone get a gov't grant to develop a method of harvest and containment for amounts of dog slobber, to be spread on wounds? Not me, I'm busy right now. In the research stage. Now CAT slobber, on the other hand... When a dog licks you, it feels all smooth and sort of comfortable. Yeah, yeah, the dog tongue is smooth and the cat tongue is rough. I'm talking after the licking part is over. The dog slobber feels like a smooth, comfortable coating on your skin. CAT slobber, long after the licking is over, still feels sort of abrasive and itchy. Like you wanna wash it off. Well, you sort of wanna wash the dog slobber off too, but you don't really have to. If you get waylaid, and don't get to the washing immediately, and the dog slobber dries, you can forget about it. Once the cat slobber dries on you, yuck! It keeps on feeling like sandpaper on your skin and you don't forget about it. You scrub it off! I wonder why this is? In case you're grossed out by this slobber conversation, consider human slobber. FAR more bad bacteria than dog slobber. Even than cat slobber, unless the cat just finished cleaning his....derriere. I mean. If you lick someone, and you have H1N1 (for example), boom, they're infected. If they lick that same spot, or have a scratch there, or rub their eye with the hand you licked. When was the last time you were infected with a disease by dog slobber? Hm? And, don't kid yourself, you get a lotta human slobber on yourself, probably on a fairly regular basis. That stuff is germy, man! Germy! You should avoid human slobber! Have you ever realized how disease-free the Inuit were before they started kissing like us southerners do? Yeah! They rubbed noses or something. No slobber exchange, see. Once they starte exchanging slobber, boom. Infected. Flu, smallpox, all sorts of stuff. When was the last time you were infected with smallpox by dog slobber? I'm wondering if maybe we should have dogs lick all the doorknobs and computer keyboards in the area, to cleanse them. Say, before people come to the office, or several times a day at the mall. A good job for all those unemployed SPCA dogs. We could have dogs in the doctor's office, where they (the dogs, not the docs) would lick the faces of the patients. A double whammy of cure, physical cleansing and psychological comforting. What do you think? Now that I ponder it, if I licked my dog, would he get germs? If I had a cold, would he get a cold? Maybe. Unless he then licked the spot that I'd licked and cleaned up my germs with his good ol' clean dog slobber...

Someone recently advised me "He chose his life, now he must deal with it." As in the old cliche "He made his bed, now he must lie in it." But what do we do when the bed maker expresses a longing for help? My adviser suggests the fellow must deal with his life choices. My suggestion is, since the fellow has requested help, expressed a formerly hidden feeling of abandonment and desire for aid, should we not now try to give aid? Are we to forever carry on letting him lie in the bed he made? Are we to qualify our aid with conditions such as, if you get out of that bed, now I'll help you? What did Jesus do? When did he walk away from someone asking for help? Did he say to the woman at the well (who was living in an adulterous relationship)"clean up your life, then I'll help you"? No. He said, I know how you're living. It's not good. But I forgive you. I'll help you. NOW go home and clean up your situation. Did he make her feel she was worthless because she'd made wrong choices in life? No, he made her feel he cared, he would help, and she is very worthy. She went away and bragged him up. There's Tough Love, and then there's condemnation. There's giving help with a heart of superiority, and there's giving help because you love that person. Because he's important to you. We all know he's important to God, and God doesn't look at the made bed as much as he sees the condition of the heart of the bed maker. I don't know what my adviser will be doing, but as for God and me, we're going to help. Bed or no bed.

As the worm turns

My dad used to think I was valuable. He stuck up for me when my mom wanted to spank me. he taught me important stuff like how to clean a chicken. (And I don't mean dry clean.) After the divorce, he bought me clothes my mom couldn't afford, like a leather coat. I think I was the only kid in high school with a full-length leather coat. Man, that sucker was heavy! He told me never to respond to a honked horn at the curb, but to expect the young man to come to the door for me. He held my hand leaving the theatre so I wouldn't get stolen or lost, or afraid. Dad taught me important things like, listen to what a person has to say, then do what you know is right; respect Nanna and Gramps, they're old and they love you; look to the left so you won't be blinded by the oncoming guys headlights. He also taught Suzy (the dog) to sing and Venus (the cat) to fetch a rubber sink plug. He encouraged me to eat moose tongue and pickled herring. These are important things, because to this day, I'll eat anything edible and enjoy it. Somehow Dad got me to be unafraid of everything. I camp in a tent 3 miles from anyone, near a game trail, and am not afraid. I apply for jobs in 4 provinces and am not afraid. I drive fast. I climb tall trees (I'm 50 by the way). I eat smoked eel. I enter crowded rooms and exit only slightly scathed (emotionally!). My dad told me to look in the mirror every day and tell myself, I'm a good person. That's really, really hard. What happened? For my 50th birthday, my dad sent me "free" gifts of several cards and some sheets of wrapping paper, which he rec'd upon donating to a charity. I've looked forward to my 50th birthday for 5 years. I plan to have a party with cake for some new friends and new neighbors, near the home I"ve only lived in for a year. Which is something like 3500km from my dad. He won't come to visit. I guess I'm supposed to feel good that he remembered my birthday. For which, once upon a time, he was grateful. I guess now, it's more like...disappointment? Either way, I wonder if I really deserve this.

By the way, click on the fishtank water to feed the fish.

What if you know that everything you're doing is a hiding place? You know that your life is pretty average, normal-good as opposed to normal-bad. In fact, you're fitting in pretty well with the madding crowd. Okay that's scary! You never meant to fit in. But if you get any more normal, you'll be indistinguishable from the crowd. Baaa.... You have no way of doing what you really want to be doing, and you have feelings about things that are as they are. The feelings won't change and the things don't change, so you do other things to hide from the unchangeable things. Complex, huh? So all the experts say it's not healthy to hide. What's the alternative in this situation? It's not over until the fat lady sings. (Who said that first? And who is the fat lady anyway? And how's her singing?) So she hasn't sung, and is highly unlikely to ever sing. It'll never be over. There are lots and lots of hiding places. Now you see me, now you don't............

Sometimes you think you're getting butter, but it's not all butter. Some of it is water. Sometimes you think you're getting mayonnaise, but it's not all mayonnaise. Some of it is water. My Dad thinks he's getting all margarine. Some of it is water. A lot of it is water. You paid for all butter. You paid for all mayonnaise. You didn't know you were paying for...water. The water makes the popcorn a bit soggy. The water makes the toast a bit soggy. The water was pretty expensive, too. The water didn't really lower your cholesterol, it just made things.....soggy. Don't you wish butter was butter and mayonnaise was mayonnaise? All mayonnaise? Don't you wish you could just enjoy the toast and the popcorn and things wouldn't be, even a little bit, soggy? Wouldn't it be nice, when you read the label, it didn't lie? It just said what it really is? The picture was really true, all butter, no water, pure butter, man. What you see is what you get. What you pay for is pure and real and good for ya. Your cholesterol would lower itself, just knowing that it was all real and good. And true. Not filled with....something else that was sneaked in, pretending to be butter. Then it sneakily makes you soggy. I do. I wish butter was still just butter.

2% of Persons.........

WHAT the h e dbl. hockey sticks is up with Facebook?? Wow, I hate it! I made the mistake of opening an account, hoping to get in touch with someone who has "no time to e mail". But DOES have time to...Facebook. So Facebook is a verb now?! Check the dictionary, folks. So I guess this means I'm one of the 2% of persons who isn't head-over-heels for Facebook. I was one of the 2% of persons who couldn't use dental anaesthetic! Yeh. That was a bummer. Well, this Facebook allergy; dyslexia; fear of being controlled by the Illuminati?......whatever it is that causes Facebook to NOT work for me......is it a bummer or is God protecting me? I wonder if the 2% of us should start a movement. Stop using electronic "communication" devices altogether. Stop using fad words, like "bummer" and "gross". Or whatever the latest fad words are. Stop using old words for stupid new meanings, like "facebook" as a verb. Or "text" as a verb. How about "texting"? "Texted". I've heard that one. Makes everybody sound like they use English as a second language. Oh wait, the ESL persons actually use CORRECT words in CORRECT spaces, because FAD words MAKE NO SENSE. Oops, rabbit trail there. My point is, I hate Facebook. I hate that everyone's on it. Why are they? I hate that it doesn't work for me when it works for literally BILLIONS of other people. But why should I? (Because those persons who have no time to e mail also have no time to write on paper, or call on the phone.) I hate how it has everyone in its insidious control. E mailing is too slow now! Who writes a paper letter? (Thanks for the one you sent last week, my #1 son.) Who calls? Who can spell? Who can speak correct English? Or Cantonese, even? No doubt they have text symbols in Cantonese as well. Yeah. I'm thinkin' about serious rebellion here, folks. I may just sell the ol' PC and go back to snail mail and on-phone conversation. Scary.

And what's the point of a baby owl?

A friend sent me a photo she took of a baby owl. Cute! Man, you don't know cute 'til you see a baby owl. Owlet, technically. Isn't that even a cuter than cute name? So now I'm all hot to hike out and sneak up and try to see the owlet and his momma. If I'm really quiet, she won't swoop down and peck out my eyeballs. I know this because once before in my life I had a glimpse of owlets, way way up in a cottonwood tree. (Never mind the technical name for cottonwood.) We could quietly (QUIETLY!!) sneak up beneath the tree, actually quite far back otherwise we couldn't see far enough up due to the perspective if you grasp my meaning, and watch the momma bring snacks in for the wee ones. Then they got big enough so we could see their fuzzy heads above the messy nest. If we were patient and QUIET! . But if we got too close (and I mean, too close was like a hundred feet away, since we were not only below but back from the tree), I say, if we got TOO close, that momma owl HISSED at us! Holy crow! This loud, growly kinda deep ZZZing hiss. Her head and big yellow eyes and gigantic beak would swivel. Following us like the bizarre eyes of an ancient painting. One more step forward....SNAP!! Her beak would begin to clack and she'd puff up her feathers, begin stepping from foot to foot (we could see her sort of rocking side to side), hunch up her shoulders and holy........sugar we'd step back double quick. We knew without question Momma was just about to swoop down and peck our eyeballs out of our heads, leaving streaming, bloody holes. Oh yeah. No messin' with THOSE babies. So the next thing on my mind is, what's up with all these photos of people's babies on Facebook? Ya know, some of the sites even have the address of the nest on them, man. The town, the street name perhaps. The predators (or potential enemies) getting closet and closer to the nest, maybe at first not meaning harm, but maybe attracting other predators and next thing you know, BAM! The tree's down, the nest is violated, and those owlets (kidlets?) are snatched and gone. Too late for momma to hiss and growl now. Maybe she shoulda protected the nest better. Maybe she should have hid the nest in the forest, not hung it out on the edge of the woods, with babies in full view. Our owlets survived because we never told anyone else about them. We quietly watched them a few times a week, from a distance, and we never tried to tame them or touch them. We never taught them to think the world is a safe place for owlets to roam, or that people are safe to play with. Where are your owlets tonight?

This is not a way of life.........

Now that things are calming down a bit, I can blog a bit. You see, I've been working inside a Big Box Store. You know the ones: all the staff dress like Smerfs and behave like Stepford wives. The management is manic depressive, or maybe just depressive, and the cashiers used to be row bosses in women's prison. So, you get over these stereotypes, and try to enjoy something in the character of the staff you're compelled to work with. I use the term "work" loosely, as the cliche says. One works, one (two, or three) watches. Surreptitiously. Suspiciously. Which brings me to the crux of this blog. (crux: A tormenting or baffling problem. Hmm. Guess I should've said the crux of the job within the BBS!)

Where is the pride in work? Where is the self respect in doing well at a job? Where is the integrity in customer service? (Where is the customer service??)

Who teaches the kids to do well on the job, to be honest, to work a full day, to take fair and restful breaks? Who teaches respect for the co-worker in a higher position, and respect for the newbie in a lower position?

Who tells the staff member that customers are important? Not because of the wallets, but because they're human beings who took the time to shop here? That those purchases pay your wages?

Who cares about quality of or caring for the products?

The managers I worked with were pretty concerned and spent significant time working on creating a buddy relationship with junior staff. The junior staff spent even more significant work hours flirting and chatting and slouching along corridors, avoiding eye contact with customers but definitely making eye contact with the girl/guy staff she/he wanted to.......talk business with at the next staff meeting. Yeah right.

I'm burned about the entire situation. It makes me sick to see no positive teaching, no respect, no pride, no honesty coming down from management, trickling down the food chain to the lowliest position on staff. When you have the opportunity to teach a junior worker a correct procedure, they don't want to learn it. They just want to slouch around, get paid, go home. Don't miss the staff Xmas party.

It was literally making me ill to work within this atmosphere. I had to leave. I said thank you God, but for the grace of, there go I. May the God of the cattle on a thousand hills protect me from ever having to feed my needs by working in such a place. And I wasn't even on the staff!

The creepy thing is the way they all talk Big Box Speak. You know, the comfortable terminology that A. makes the staff feel important because they know a secret language that customers do not and B. a spade isn't called a spade. There are "tasks", not "work" or "duties". Everyone is an "associate", not a "worker" or "staff". Nearly everyone from the dog up has a title, which means nothing because not only does this titled person have no authority at all, he is seemingly too stupid or dishonest to acquire or deserve the responsibility attached to authority.

Yeah, I'm gonna stop now before my blood pressure goes any higher or my spirits any lower. It's redoubled my efforts to encourage, teach, listen, show respect, and call a spade a spade.

Vive l' small business!!

What is it about patience? I seem to have a good amount of patience with elderly folks... I don't seem to have enough patience with average age folks. Or bratty little kids. Why is that now? I have greater levels of patience with handicapped persons of any age. Unless the handicapped person is a jerk. To my way of thinking, just because you're handicapped doesn't give you jerk privileges. Or just because you're old doesn't entitle you to be a jerk. Or if you're hung-over... Yeah, I have zero patience for hung-over persons of any age! Seems like it's all about attitude. Not mine, theirs. For instance, if a person is on say, painkillers, for legitimate pain relief, then I have a greater degree of patience, because I know they're having unusual symptoms from A. the pain and B. the meds. But if the person in pain is just a whiner who doesn't do the exercises which move him toward recovery, well, I say, suck it up Suzy. Don't whine to me! I have no patience for a non-trier. The specific example that got me online about this is persons who are NOT elderly behaving as if they WERE and expecting something extra from me, because they've chosen to adopt elderly behaviorisms in a non-elderly body and mind. Can't cope with that! Minimal patience in action there. See? Attitude. I still perceive my dad as a younger man, although he perceives himself as elderly-ish, and he IS over 70. So I have to remind myself that he's legitimately old. Er. Old-er. Not OLD. (Good thing Dad doesn't read this!) Attitude. Perceptions. His, and mine. When do we begin with patience? What about persons who don't take care of their health, consequently experience ill health, and then expect increased levels of patience on my part? "Care for me, now I'm ill." Well gee. You brought it on yourself, now I have to bear the consequences? My patience falters. What about Tough Love? Is it best applied before or after? Actually, I don't know if I have the patience to discuss that at this moment. Wow. What an attitude!

For those of you who were asking........

Here are the quotes on my office wall at the moment (not in order of importance):

"A man who limits his interests limits his life." Vincent Price

"We will either find a way or make one." Hannibal (the one who crossed the mountains, not the one who eats people)

"My goal is to become the person my dog thinks I am."

"Perseverance is not about talent or time. It is about finishing." And, "perseverance doesn't come into play until a person is tired."

"Come now, let us reason together. Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white like wool. If you are willing and obedient, you will eat the best from the land, but if you resist and rebel, you will be devoured by the sword." Bible

"Language reveals the man. Speak, that I may see thee." Ben Jonson (circa 1500a.d.)

I won't add the poem, the Hagar cartoon, or the Snoopy and Woodstock, altho' these too are very, very wise words. Gotta go now. The dog is whining!

Does anyone really care about our national parks? Does anyone think when they chuck crap out the window of the car? Will anyone sign my petition, if I send it to the prime minister? (Of Canada, I mean. Okay, I know the British PM will get more action, but we have to start at the bottom of the totem pole.) This new petition proposes the BANNNING (and if necessary, the transport) OF DISPOSABLE DIAPERS IN NATIONAL PARKS. What happens is, when persons with infants come to park gates, they are required to surrender all disposable diapers in their possession. If they have no cloth diapers on hand, the park ranger will exchange a portion of the disposables for an appropriate amount of cloth nappies, depending on the expected length of stay within said park. When leaving the park, infants may return the dirty cloth diapers for cleansing or composting, depending on the severity of condition. Of the nappies, not the babies. If possible (in accordance with the distance of transport) the previously deposited disposables will be returned. No disposable diapers will be available for sale anywhere within park boundaries. Cloth diapers will be offered for sale at reasonable prices, as well as diaper exchange services, where infants may exchange soiled nappies for clean. Infants and related caregivers residing within the park as citizens will be required to use only cloth diapers as well. (Unless they are potty trained.) Park employees will receive significantly discounted fees at the diaper exchange service. Not only will this procedure clean up extremely vile and potentially dangerous (to man and beast) littered diapers, it will decrease by tons the amount dumped (excuse the pun) in ...dumpsters. And landfills. Employment will be created via the formation of diaper exchange services. Diaper rash will significantly decrease, while ducks and jellyfish will have the opportunity to NOT fill their guts with plastic bits and silica pellets. When the petition is published, please add your name to the list of supporters.

Just Do It

Dear friends, I am about to give you a garden tip of paramount importance! (Is that a double invective?) For 2009, whether you enjoy eating them or not, PLANT PARSNIPS. Last week, here on the Cold Windy Water, I pried out a huge parsnip from the icy bed. Today, I harvested the entire crop, because the poor things were trying to reproduce! (After all, they're in bed.) Let me impress upon your garden psyche a most indelible imprint: The wonderfully satisfactory swelling of emotion as one pulls a fresh, eatable product from one's own garden in April.... I have found no match in my personal historical archive of gardening emotions. (Notice the word "archive" has the word "chive" within? Mmm...) As I mentioned to my daughter, the feeling is akin to the sprouting of Spring radishes, the uprooting and munching of same, except the Parsnip Pleasure is measurably more marvellous. And upon that most excellent phraseful of alliteration, I leave you for today. Plant Parsnips and be Pleasantly Uplifted. Next April.