On Sowers, Reapers, And Nurturers

Ah--the sweet smell of success! My basil and oregano are ready for lasagna.

"She's harvesting!" my husband joked, but I believe he was equally as thrilled. Hubby comes from a strong background of reapers.

I have long held the philosophy that all humans fall into one of three categories: sowers, nurturers, or reapers. I am a born sower, hard-wired for creation. My joy comes from the simple moment of birth. I can plant more seeds, conjure more dreams, and start more projects (often at the same time) than anyone I know.

My husband, by contrast, is a natural reaper. Reapers find joy in finishing things. Sounds terrible, doesn't it?  But, permit me to submit into evidence Exhibit A: the sacrificial scything of our rosemary. As soon as our terraced rosemary bushes became a bit unruly, Hubby decided they must go. Actually, he comes with a long rap-sheet of ruthless reaping.  Exhibit B: When we moved to the desert, we were enchanted with our first home which served as an (unnatural) habitat for twenty-nine transplanted palm trees. But every time my dear soulmate cleaned the pool he cursed the heavy foliage that surrounded our personal Garden of Eden. Each Sunday, I went to church,  returning at noon to discover one less tree. Paul Bunyan didn't see that much action. Indeed, at that time, my reaper hubby deserved the moniker "Grim."

It occurred to me more than once that all the chopping was an act of passive aggression against my insistence on going to church. But as I became more enlightened, I realized Hubby just couldn't help himself. He was born a reaper. The moment life looks a bit cluttered, he feels compelled to tidy it up. And if you're a born sower, a reaper is handy to have around. We sowers tend to be very messy.

The other obvious problem with sowers is...we're not always good about seeing things through. Once we've planted the seeds and the first sprigs sprout, our enthusiasm fades and we are distracted by the possibility of the next birth. That's where the nurturers come in. Nurturers find bliss in caring for the world, in lovingly bringing life to fruition. They are the guardians of the Universe. Without nurturers, no creative acts would bear fruit. My mother was a great nurturer. And I believe my daughter is, as well.

I theorize that all of us are capable of crossing the categorical boundaries of sowers to nurturers to reapers. My reaper husband has been a great nurturer of my herb garden. Tonight, with my fresh basil- and-oregano-seasoned lasagna, I will reap, and savor the fruits of my harvest. And tomorrow I will sow more herb seeds. I'm almost giddy with anticipation. But for now--Bon Appetit!

The Table: A Faux Pas Finish

Consider "Operation Table Refinishing" officially completed. I feel like hanging a banner that reads: "Mission Accomplished" (much with the same embarrassing resonance.) Let's just say that the finished project is nothing to brag about.

"What have you learned, Grasshopper?..."

Let's count the lessons:

1. I have learned that "drizzling" is a technique best used to glaze a cake--not table edges.
2. I have learned dimples are only attractive on babies' cheeks-- not on cellulite-ridden legs and certainly not on furniture finishes.
3. I have learned neither nature nor nurture can guarantee that the talents so many of my ancestors shared will manifest in my own experiences.

After conferring with the customer service peon expert at the MinWax hotline, I realized that I was in over my head. Five minutes of her advice had my eyes glazed over. The long and short of it is that after five coats of polyurethane, (and five days of kitchen chaos) my table looks like a glossy golf ball. Not exactly the result I was going for.

But before I declare defeat, let me review what I had set out to do. The value I place on that oak table rests not in the beauty of its natural wood grain or its solid sturdiness. Its value rests in the memories of all the meals shared around it, the piles of homework spread over it, and the craft projects completed at it. Those memories are what I sought to honor by restoring the table to former glory.

When you think about it, the table and I are a lot alike. Our beauty does not come from what you see on the surface. Neither of us look as good as we used to, and we never will again. We could both use a little air-brushing. But...wrinkles only show where the smiles have been. Each mark and scar carries a story of how it was born. And no matter how much putty you apply or how thick you lay on the varnish you can't gloss over those moments. Why would you want to?

Mission accomplished? Yep. It's good 'nuf.

Unfinished Projects: "Yes I Can!"

Okay, so I may have (yet again) underestimated the extent of my refinishing project. That's my modus operandi. I play Farmville on Facebook and immediately presuppose I can grow my own kitchen garden. Yes I can! I watch HGTV and assume that I, too, can refinish an oak table. Yes I can! Like
Wile E. Coyote I always take a big leap of faith--right off the nearest cliff. Naivete! Don't even get me started on the quilt scraps I have cut and buried in an bin somewhere.

But this is one project I have to finish...er...refinish. Once I sanded off the old varnish, which was minimal after so many years, I had no choice but to plow on, full speed ahead.

Did I mention that I come from a long line of woodworkers? That, however, is part of the gene pool in which I've only waded. The moment I opened the can of wood stain, I was back standing next to my father's workbench. I was only twelve years old. Dad and I were refinishing an old wash stand we'd found in my grandmother's attic. This was yet another 4-H project--(that durn 4-H always pushed me beyond my comfort zone.) As I recall, once I spilled varnish remover on my arm, resulting in a nasty burn, Dad pretty much finished the refinishing for me. That antique wash basin stands today in my foyer--a lovely reminder of my Dad's love and craftsmanship and the project I escaped we shared.

Zoom back to 2010. The stain went on easily enough. And the polyurethane flowed on with little effort. First coat done, and time for a walk with the dog. Two miles later I returned to find a strange bubbling on the edges of the table. Could the sun shining through the open window have caused the finish to blister? And what was that strange dimpling in the surface?

Panicked, I phoned my brother, the woodworking expert. (He actually swims in that part of the family gene pool.) The ratfink wasn't home.

"It looks like it lifted," declared my hubby later that day.

"Lifted!?"

"Yeah. You know--separated," he affirmed.

"Lifted?! Separated?!! Those are words you only want to hear describe a good bra!" I wailed.

"I think you're going to have to sand it down and start over," he advised.

GGGrrrhhhhh!!!

So today I sanded down the half of the table that blistered in the sun. And let me just say, that polyurethane is one hard finish. But I am nothing if not determined. Tomorrow I will channel my father and restain, revarnish! Yes I can! But not before I call the MinWax hotline.

Now

First let me say that I'm not a big believer in astrology. I put about as much stock in my daily horoscope as I do in fortune cookies. Actually, I learned that lesson the hard way. I once opened a fortune cookie to find the message: "You're a lover of words. You should write a book." I spent the next seven years trying to find a publisher for my children's book. (In all fairness, I must admit that the fortune cookie said nothing about publication.) But I digress...

When I read my horoscope the other day, I admit--it struck a nerve. I knew exactly what task my daily reading referred to. Several months ago (okay, more like six) I purchased wood stain and polyurethane to refinish my oak dining room table.

"You're not planning on doing that now, are you?" hubby growled.

"Why not?" I countered. "It needs it desperately."

"You need to wait until it cools down so we can open the windows and ventilate."

He had a point. It was much too hot to turn off the a/c and open the house up. Well, that was six months ago. Endless Arizona summer slipped right into winter, and still my table remained unsanded, unvarnished, untouched.

Part of it was that everytime my guilty conscience reminded me of my procrastination, I would rationalize that I was, afte rall, a human being--not a human doing. So I waited. I waited for the Universe to send me a sign. And then I read that horoscope. Gazinga!

It is time.

So I've assembled my supplies, I've tarped over the floor, read all the instructions. Never mind the fact that I've never done this before. When have I ever let that stop me? Stay tuned.

Sowing Seeds of Love

So I spent the afternoon with my two granddaughters today, and for one of our activities, I decided it would be fun to include them in "Project Kitchen Garden." What could be more important than sharing my delusion vision for a sustainable herb terrarium, right?

It started out well enough. I intended to take the girls out to the patio for reseeding and potting. But, with gully-washer rains interspersed with driving wind, suffice it to say, the weather did not cooperate. Not to worry--I had formulated "plan B." We took the project to the garage.

The eight-year-old showed enthusiasm for about five minutes. Playing in dirt was not her thing. "This stuff is sticking to my fingers," she complained. Never mind the fact that her fingers were already stained with water color markers and stamping ink from the previous scrapbooking project we had just finished. The two-year-old showed much more interest. Dirt is definitely her thing. With each expanding rehydrated potting pellet she exclaimed "OOh! COOOL!"

All was controlled chaos until that sweet baby decided to open the seed packet of lavender by herself. (Including lavender in a terrarium for culinary herbs now seems totally ill-advised.) Before I could stop her, she was shaking the open seed packet, scattering lavender seeds across the entire terrarium bed.

I have already noticed that my cilantro pot contains some suspiciously basil-looking sprigs. The basil has definitely been doing some unauthorized fraternizing. I can't imagine where the lavender is going to turn up. But I wouldn't be surprised if some doesn't sprout in the cilantro pot as well. That's just as it should be. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Just wondering--lavender isn't poisonous, is it?

Second Chances

Okay so remember how I accidentally drowned my rosemary? Well apparently, even the most inept agronomists deserve a second chance.

“I gotcha’ some more rosemary,” hubby announced, yesterday.

“You’re kidding.” I couldn’t imagine that my husband was that supportive. True—he had shown a bit of interest in “Project Kitchen Garden” (mostly in the form of amused sarcasm.) But would he have actually picked up more rosemary seeds at the store? Doubtful.

“Look,” he said, proudly drawing me over to the kitchen counter where some tiny sprouts floated in a bottlecap, filled with water.

“How do you know they’re rosemary?”

Cue heavy eye-rolling here on the part of dear spouse. “There’s a ton of it out in the cactus bed.”

“Show me.”

I followed him out to the cactus bed—you know—the one he’d insisted on planting after he pulled out the unruly rosemary shrubs. Amid the river stones, newborn sprigs poked their baby leaves.

“How do you know it’s rosemary?”Heavy eye-rolling accompanied by deep sighs here. “Smell it!” he ordered.

Yep, Sure enough, my nose detected that sweet floral fragrance. Remember my theory that by pulling out the old rosemary bushes we had created bad herb karma? (See my previous entry on The Reluctant Rosemary.) The joke was on me. I had been trying to sprout rosemary from seed packets, with no success. Mother Nature germinated these wayward seeds without so much as a starter pellet or a terrarium cover. Our record rains of recent days worked their magic and the tiny rosemary sprouts were thriving in the sand.

Consider the lilies of the field…

“How much of it do you want?” asked hubby. “You’d better pull it now—as soon as it get’s a little warmer, it’s gonna die.”

So I gathered enough rosemary sprouts to fill three egg carton starter pots. The Universe has sent me a second chance—now let’s just hope I don’t screw it up.