My Practically Perfect Patio

Last fall, our next-door neighbors cut down a huge Douglas fir that had lived in their backyard long before it ever was a backyard. Most likely the tree was second growth - as opposed to original, unlogged, first growth which is the most pristine forest imaginable in these here Pacific Northwest parts, and mostly exists only in protected places. But a second-growth tree is no slouch, and it was a glorious monument that had towered over their yard and ours since the day we moved in, and I grieved to see it go.

Thank goodness I wasn't home when they cut it down. 

But once the dust had settled and my tears dried, I realized that there was a fabulous silver lining. 

My formerly shady backyard is now drenched in evening sunshine.

Dominoes continued to fall this summer:

Making room for the guys to work on our new fences led to me cutting back a psychotically huge clematis - don't worry, that pup is still alive and kicking, and already growing back.

Once the vine was whacked back, I removed the big cedar trellis upon which said clematis was draped. This trellis had a lovely seat built underneath the arch, for reading Jane Austen and sipping lemonade, which of course is why I bought it. But while sitting on the trellis seat, snails living in the vines overhead would intermittently rain down on the seated humans, and let me tell you, that is not cool at all. Jane would not approve.

And while I was busy taming my green beast, my back-door neighbors whittled back an enormous butterfly bush that was trespassing merrily on this same corner of my yard. 

Once all these changes fell into place, I discovered that this corner of the yard was a perfect spot for dinner. 

See where the sun is? That is exactly where the giant Doug fir used to stand. By five p.m. on summer evenings, my backyard lay mostly in its shadow.

 Just one bitty little problem though.

You know how that goes. Any good idea always has a bitty little problem attached, and ninety-five percent of the project's time, money, and sweat ends up directed to that devilish complication.

The problem here was that this corner patio was designed with that whomping clematis and snail-dropping trellis in mind, so it didn't go all the way to the fence. We left about two feet of soil around the pavers and planting it with ground cover. You know, so the snails would have a nice, soft landing after we brushed them out of our hair and off the pages of Pride and Prejudice, then ran away screaming.

So with the clematis and trellis gone, the snails sent packing, and the ground cover ripped out with my bare and very determined hands, I now had a weird gap of soil between the patio and the fence.

This was my little bitty problem.

Gracie's my go-to tail model.

Well, no worries. My fourth-born and I laid those big slate stones with our own bare and very determined hands about five years ago, so it was no big thing to head back to the stone yard and grab a few more.

I shop at a stone yard like many women flock to Nordstrom's Half Yearly. It's just my idea of a really good time, and while I'm picking out whatever it is I came for, I'm also oogling the stacks and stalls of beautiful specimens, and dreaming up projects so I can come back and buy more.

I bought these slate pavers at Mutual Materials in Bellevue, but my favorite place to wander and dream is Terrazzo and Stone Supply in Marysville.

Yeah, that purple trellis is definitely crooked. Thank goodness, now I have something to fix this weekend.

But wait, said my husband, who loves nothing more than to think up little bitty problems and lob them across my creative plate.

The existing patio is higher than the bottom of the fence. If you bring the pavers right up to the fence, the sand and gravel will bury the first couple inches of the fence boards.

Gah. That's not going to happen.

But this is not my first at-bat, and I'm well-acquainted with my husband's change-up pitch.

I came up with an answer fast.

Alright, fine. Then I'll lay a ridge of blocks just a few inches inside the fence as a mini retaining wall. That will keep the patio level and the sand off the wood.

Ha.

I knocked that pitch straight out of the park.

Of course, the stone guys no longer carry the exact match for my existing stones, which are the darker ones you see here. The new kids are lighter in color, and a bit sparkly. But I mixed them in as best I could and in the end, they look fine.

So that's exactly what I did.

To be completely honest, I consider the finished effect to be a tiny bit janky. If I really wanted to solve the problem correctly, I would take out all the slate stones, regrade the entire gravel bed to be level with the bottom of the fence, and then relay the whole patio.

That sounds like a ridiculous amount of work, doesn't it.

So you know, later this summer, if I find myself with a slow weekend on my hands, I can always do that.

But for now, I just want to enjoy my dinner in the golden sunshine. And so I'm calling this patio expansion project practically perfect and officially complete. 

Vogue

The year was 1987. Just a few weeks after giving birth to my first daughter, which flooded my being with mama bear instincts far beyond my greatest imagination, I was invited to join a dance team.

A Jazzercise dance team. Mhmm. That's right.

The purpose of this mission, if I chose to accept it, was to perform onstage during our city's summer festival, and in a conscious effort to balance the yin of my life-changing transition to motherhood with the yang of my sassy former self, I said yes.

Thus began a summer filled with weekly Saturday morning practice sessions, as we perfected every patented 80s pop star dance move known to man. I loved every minute.

The day of the September performance finally arrived. Looking fresh in our coordinated leotards and leg warmers, we dancers had also made some upgrades to our hair and make up. At our dress rehearsal, my instructor/friend and fearless leader had encouraged us to let go of our usual work-out-worthy pony tails and fresh faces, and for the performance, lean into big hair and sultry make-up.

When I showed up back stage, draws dropped at my new look. Later, my instructor told me that she honestly didn't recognize me under my natural finger waves, dark berry lip color, and smokey eye shadow. Not that I normally looked bad, she hurriedly clarified; this was just a more glamorous kind of beauty than she'd ever seen on me before.

And so we danced.

And we totally rocked it.

I'm not normally a performer at heart. I've never enjoyed the spotlight and rarely put myself in any situation that requires an audience to look at me.

But this was different. I lost myself in the moves and the music, and forgot about the fact that the auditorium was packed. It was a moment of my life that I will always treasure.

I'll always treasure the song of that day too. Though we'd worked through the routine easily a hundred times before we got up on that stage, I never got sick of it. One line from the lyrics felt particularly like a personal message just for me:

Beauty's where you find it. 

For all the joys and blessings of first-time motherhood - and I was up to my ears in all those good things - I felt, as most new mothers probably do, somewhat less than beautiful. And I wondered, as most new mothers probably do, if I would ever feel beautiful again. 

What I learned from

this line

this song

this dance

this performance

was that music, dance, imagination, inspiration, and yes, even beauty were still within my reach. All I had to do is reach out and take them. 

I felt, then and now, a sweet rush of relief whenever I hear this song. 

Beauty's where you find it. 

* * * * *

Now, please fast forward with me through the decades and right up to today.

I was in Bellevue, a satellite city of Seattle, known for its ever-expanding high-rise skyline and an impressive portfolio of top notch corporate headquarters, but also nitty and gritty in its own right. I was on a mission at a local stone yard, definitely one of the nittier and grittier parts of town. While my husband handled payment for the patio stones I'd just picked out, my dog and I took a turn around a gravel overflow parking area at the back of the property. 

As we sauntered along this extremely inelegant lane under a tiresome hot sun, Gracie predictably headed for the tangle of blackberry vines and weeds along the broken down wire fence at the edge of the gravel. She gamely tucked her head under the prickly vines and sniffed about as I fell into deep, dark, moody thoughts about

the dirty and the ugly

the sick and the discouraged

the pain and frustration

of our world today.

Suddenly, I noticed what was right in front of my face. 

Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache
It's everywhere that you go


You try everything you can to escape
The pain of life that you know


When all else fails and you long to be
Something better than you are today


I know a place where you can get away
It's called a dance floor, and here's what it's for.

Wildflowers. 

Not the scrappy, scrubby run-down specimens one might expect to see in an untended city patch of gravel. But lush, colorful, charming little faces, worthy of their country cousins who might adorn a pristine meadow under a clear blue sky.

With careful framing, I realized, they would make for some lovely photographs. So I told Gracie to wait (yes, she knows what that means), pulled out my camera, and began to snap away.

And that's when I heard it.

Just as clearly as if I were back on that stage, dancing my heart out, a gentle voice in my head rang sweet and true. . 

Beauty's where you find it. 

Beauty is still within our reach, my friends. All we have to do is reach out and take it. 

Obedience

Me: Gracie, you wanna go on a walk?
My dog: Roger that, lady.

"Your dog is so obedient."

I glanced down at Gracie as my newfound friend pulled his yapping terrier along by the leash, the dog's tiny feet scrambling across the pavement in a desperate and futile effort to breach the six-foot distance between us and say hello. 

She sat calmly at my side, heeled over to the edge of the walking path, all her attention focused on what was probably a bunny in the bushes but maybe an old Taco Bell wrapper. 

He was right. Gracie is a very obedient lady dog.

But how exactly did this happen? I'll be honest - when she first came to us, my dog was a bit of a hooligan. Although I've definitely made some efforts to establish myself as Gracie's alpha and got her settled with some basic commands, I don't think of myself as a particularly obedience-oriented human, and I certainly don't devote much time and attention to formal training activities.

As we watched man and yappy dog fade down the path, and then continued on our way, I had second thoughts. 

I do expect my dog to be obedient, I mused, but I don't have to spend a lot of time in overt training mode. Because we are together every minute of every day (no exaggeration in this quarantine lyfe) and because we are so closely connected, wired for constant verbal and nonverbal communication, my dog and I get each other. At this point in our life together, we each understand perfectly well what the other expects from us, and we have learned how to work within each other's expectations with a minimum of fuss and bother. 

In other words, during every minute of every day, I am positively reinforcing the behaviors I want my dog to choose, and after three years of life together, she pretty much gets it. We enjoy each and every day together in sweet harmony and just a little chaos, which is exactly how I like it. 

Gracie has figured out that dogs belong on sidewalks and that even one tiny step into this thing called a street causes her mother to make loud, unpleasant noises of disapproval. So she almost never steps into the street. I mean, unless there's a really good reason, like a dead squirrel.  

She's also taught herself to stop at crosswalks and wait for me to catch up before attempting to cross. I see people in cars smiling in amazement at her on the daily as she practices this maneuver. 

Which got me to thinking about an interesting situation I'd recently observed. A young family - mom, dad, and three-ish-year-old boy were eating dinner within my earshot. And boy, oh boy, were the parents ever putting Junior through his paces. Though he was already behaving quite agreeably, mom  was in full-on training mode. 

"Say, please. 

Say, may I. 

Say, thank you, daddy. 

Say, I love you, daddy. 

Sit down in your chair.

Eat your salmon burger. 

Wipe your fingers."

During this litany of commands, father made several attempts to strike up a dinner conversation about something other than obedience, but could not get a word in edgewise around her cheerful stream of never-ending orders. 

And in my heart, I understood exactly what was happening. 

Both of these parents work full time, and their son, along with his infant sister, spends his days with a nanny. And I get that no matter how rewarding the work or necessary the income, many working-outside-the-home mothers in our culture struggle 

with guilt, 

with shame, 

with the sense that they are not good-enough mothers 

because they are away from their children for many hours every day. 

From that sense of not-good-enough-ness, I see why those moms might lean extra hard into the obedience training, thinking, I suppose, that this is what 'good' moms do, and they need to work on the training that much harder during the short time that they have with their kids. 

What I wanted to do was put dad and son on pause, and pull that mom away from the table. I wanted to hug her, and then pull back to look in her eyes, and tell her that everything is going to be okay. The odds are really good that her son will not grow up to be an unwashed heathen. She doesn't have to work so hard at this. 

Model good manners without making a fuss.

Reinforce what your child is doing right.

Accept a little anarchy with grace.

And savor every beautiful moment of now. 

Actual commands I've given to Gracie today:

"Thank you for not licking the lotion off my feet."
"You're going to take a nap under this azalea bush while I pull weeds? Good dog."
"Yes, I promise you'll get your apple after dinner. Just wait."
"Get your lips off that fresh-baked lemon pie."

Obedience - for dogs or for toddlers - doesn't need to look like boot camp or training for the Ironman. It's simply a way of life. 

The Paradox Of Liberty

"We hold these truths to be self-evident,

that all men are created equal,

that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,

that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness,

that to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."

* * * * *

On July 4, 1776, a group of white men who were good and fed up with King George III's leadership from across the pond sat down and signed a statement declaring their intention to go their own way. The opening sentences of that document, drafted by Thomas Jefferson and edited by a committee of founding fathers, lay out the rights of "men." But what exactly was their meaning? Did the authors  use that word interchangeably with "humanity,' including men and women of all colors, or did they intend to more narrowly describe only white men who owned property?

We are left to wonder. The Declaration of Independence makes no specific mention of the rights of black men. Or women of any color. Or Native Americans. What a terrible paradox that led these statesmen to defend the aching human need for liberty but stop short of overtly recognizing it as a gift for all.

This paradox, my friends, should not be news to us. It shouldn't take us a Black Lives Matter intervention to get familiar with the history of our own country. If you'd like to brush up on the basics, let me recommend The History of US, a highly-respected and award-winning series considered an attractive alternative to basic textbooks. The issues of slavery and racism wind through most of the ten volumes in the series, and give the reader a broad perspective of how they have shaped American life. 

Does this mean, then, as I've seen a dozen memes imply, that Independence Day no longer holds moral significance for newly woke generations? That Juneteenth is the only true day of independence that matters? That we should kick this empty, rusted-out tin can of a holiday on down the road and onto a scrap heap of rotting ideas about white supremacy and systemic racism?

That, my friends, would entirely miss the point. 

Our founding fathers wrestled with the morality of slavery. Some, like Jefferson, understood that slavery was a deeply divisive issue with the terrible power to tear asunder the newly forming nation. Their compromise in writing the Declaration of Independence, and fully realized in the creation of the Constitution nine years later, was to leave the divisive issue of slavery off the table, to sidestep the issues of black rights whenever possible, to pay forward the terrible debt of this paradox for future generations to resolve. 

Americans ever since have wrestled to make things right. 

And we now find ourselves as a part of that struggle. We are called to advance the cause of freedom, to ensure that all of humanity - especially our black brothers and sisters who still suffer systemic oppression - are truly free.

Independence Day calls us all to the challenge of freedom, to right the wrongs of the past, to bring us back to the task that our forefathers didn't know how to resolve. 

Maybe we are the people who will finally solve the paradox of liberty. 

The very least we can do is try. 

My Kind Of Fun

"I can't imagine not working, really. I just think work's more fun than fun." -Mary Quaint 

On the average summer day, teenage me would show up at home for dinner after a long day with my friends spent swimming, boating, water skiing, swimming some more, and enjoying whatever other lake culture hijinx we could fit into our busy schedule. I lived a life of incredible fun.

Seated around the table, my brothers would shovel food into their mouths as my mom told us about her day. She might have cleaned something out of the ordinary, fixed something that was broken, taken on a painting project, refinished a piece of furniture, or dug around in the garden. Always, she was pumped about her accomplishments.

These activities did not sound like fun to me.

They sounded like dreadful hard work.

And truth be told, I felt very sorry for my mom, that her life contained none of the fun and frolic that mine did. Such a pity, I thought, to be an adult stuck at home on a beautiful summer day with nothing better to do than dirty, difficult chores.

"I will never be that kind of adult," vowed sweet little teenage me."I'll always have fun."

I smile just to think of that girl.

* * * * *

Today was a lovely if typically cloudy and cool midsummer's day in the Pacific Northwest. And I spent five solid hours of this day doing what I love to do best.

Working in my garden.

Now I don't mean that I was strolling about the grounds in a floral dress, straw hat on my head and basket on my arm, thoughtfully snipping delicate flowers to fill my vases indoors while reciting poetry to the birds.

Wearing a navy tank top, black bike shorts, and a grubby pair of trainers, I dug holes, broke up root balls, and pruned major canes off several rose bushes. I transplanted several dozen irises, ripped out expansive patches of invasive grass and weeds, and mulched my beds deep with wheelbarrows full of homegrown compost.

This was a dirty, messy, sweaty affair, and I came away with dirty fingernails, wet shoes, at least thirty bloodied wounds on my hands, arms, and legs.

Those roses sure put up a good fight.

But don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. Not in the least.

* * * * *

Over the course of the afternoon, I waved off several neighbors heading out for the weekend: to the islands, to the beach, to the sunshine on the far side of the mountains. Their vehicles groaned with racks of bikes, giant coolers, kayaks on the roof, speedboats in tow, kids and dogs in the back seats bouncing with excitement.

"What are you doing this weekend?" they called to me as they slowed down in front of my sidewalk, "Just staying home?"

"Yep," I replied with a secret smile that I'm sure they didn't notice. "Staying home and working in the yard."

* * * * *

As the afternoon wound to a close, my patient dog set her laser eyes on me and reminded me it was time for her walk. Before we left, I hauled off every last heap of plant debris, cleaned and put away my tools, and gave the finished beds a nice watering down.

And when we got back home, as Gracie enjoyed her dinner and a long, cool drink of water on the front porch, I wandered back to look at my handiwork.

I felt deep-down delight.

My bones ached with contentment.

My soul soared at the sight of

the happy, healthy plants;
the rich, loose soil;
the familiar colors and textures of each blossom, each stem, each leaf.

Every cell of my being vibrated on a higher frequency; my body hummed with satisfaction.

* * * * *

I still love to swim, to ski, to paddle a canoe, to skid across the waves in a fast boat.

I still like to have fun.

But these idle pleasantries are nothing to the rewards of a good, hard day's work in my garden.

Because now I know my mother's secret: working hard is without a doubt the best kind of fun.

" 

Refreshed

"You have to really use your imagination to refresh your daily life." Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt

As I puttered around my yard this weekend, the cold hard truth settled into my soul. 

This will not be a summer of mountain hikes, stargazing at the beach, or road trips across the Great Plains. Barring some sort of Covid miracle, I'm going to be spending the entire summer in my backyard. 

Mmm. Okay. I guess that's not the end of the world.

But an itch of unease began to creep across my skin as I felt another thought rise just behind the first. 

My backyard better get ready to live its best life. 

So. The first thing I did was to order an adult-size inflatable pool. The way I figure, it should be just big enough to fit a pool mattress, with a few inches of margin to spare. I'll close my eyes and pretend I'm at Cabo. 

So far, so good. 

As I put down my phone and picked back up the hose - I do my best thinking when I'm near running water - I had another thought. Maybe I'm just an inconsolable visionary or a raving perfectionist (check and check) but there are always little corners of my yard that drive me nuts, that fall short of my heady ideals and flash disappointment and shame into my heart whenever I walk by. 

Dramatic, I know. But that's how I feel.

So, I reasoned, if I don't want to drive myself crazy all summer long, I would be wise to attend to these places now. I don't have a big budget for expensive fixes, but with some imagination and creativity, I can certainly give it a shot. 

* * * * *

Oh, hello.

The first annoying spot on my radar is the area outside my side garage door which opens onto a narrow patio to the right, and on the left, a corral for our gigantic recycling and compost bins.

Overhead is a monster of an electricity meter that makes me want to cry. 

Several years ago, I gave this space some love by means of a small mirrored shelf that I found at the thrift store, perfect for a little potted plant to splash some green up near my eyes and pull them away from that utility box. 

But the mirror broke, the plant coasted into ugliness, the wooden shelf looked tired and it all needed help.

So here's what I did.

Grabbing a can of paint from the garage, I covered the shelf with a fresh coat of dark grey semi-gloss enamel. Intellectual by Behr. 

In my next life, I want to be the person who thinks up names for paint colors. 

A long view down the side yard, taken from the vantage point of the recycling bin. That trellis doesn't belong there, but he is a story for another day. 

Searching for something that would fit on the little shelf, I looked over my collection of pots scattered here and there across the yard and found a prime candidate. He was currently providing lodgings for a succulent that had utterly overwhelmed him. Seriously, I couldn't see a square centimeter of the actual pot; it had been swallowed whole by a green leafy beast. 

I replanted the usurping plant in a garden bed where he had room to stretch out, scrubbed the pot clean, and plopped him on the freshly painted (and now dry) shelf. 

Today, I strapped on my freshly washed face mask and headed out to buy a new specimen for the pot. When I got home, I braved a chilly July drizzle to unite the two at my potting bench, and admired the finished look. 

On our back patio, we keep a plastic kiddie pool full of water all year round because Gracie likes to climb in and lie down for a proper drink of water. Which means when she's ready to bring her dripping wet self inside, we have her go around through the garage for a proper toweling off. And this is the place where I meet her. 

It's a small change, to be sure. And a cheap one, too - the shelf, the pot, and the paint were all on hand, so this cost me maybe an hour of work and $4.99 for the plant. 

But now, whenever I haul my shovel and rake out of the garage, or dump the recycling, or let my dog inside, instead of cursing a shabby corner I will smile to see this simple scene.  

And over the course of what is likely to be a long corona summer, I will feel refreshed. 

Garden Boxes

"To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body but the soul." -Alfred Austin

It's an indisputable fact of life that if you like tomatoes, you'd best grow them yourself. Store-bought tomatoes absolutely do not measure up.

Goes for other fruits and vegetables too. There are few things as satisfying to me as planting my own patio crops and harvesting them for some personal farm-to-table goodness.

Which explains why I've put up with a mess of garden pots cluttering up my patio all these years. Especially here in the Pacific Northwest, that's the price to be paid for home gardening. Because of our rarely warm days and always chilly nights, even in the throes of summer, planting directly in the earth doesn't give our food crops a fighting chance to thrive. By getting the root system up out of the cold ground and surrounding the entire plant with as much warmth as possible, our produce stands a chance of, well, producing.

But after decades devoted to a cluttery cluster of terra cotta under my kitchen window - which is the sunniest spot in my backyard - I finally came up with a better way.

Raised beds.
On wheels.
Made from the wood of my old fence.

As usual, I dreamed up the concept and my husband brought my ideas to life.
As usual, he brought a layer of practicality to the project, but that's his job.

We make an effective team.

In Phase One, we built two boxes - 36 inches long and 18 inches deep - roughly based on these plans. The wood - fence slats and posts - was free and we spent about $100 on hardware for both boxes.

The first is devoted to to my precious tomatoes,

and the second full of strawberries. No slugs allowed.

Because I have a well-established penchant for moving things around and a borderline-unhealthy preoccupation with cleaning underneath things, I added wheels to our design. Granted, now that the boxes are full of well-watered soil, they put up a bit of a fight when I move them around.

But even with a single push with my left hand - which is attached to my still-healing rotator cuff - I can slide them around. Heavy but manageable. 

We held onto enough wood to make a second set of boxes that would sit in front of this pair. The wheels would allow me to slide the two rows apart when I need to get close to my crops - say, at harvest time - but also keep them pushed tight together in the corner most of the time, out of the way of other patio accouterments.

Like Gracie's bright green plastic swimming pool.

I'd love a bit more space for vegetables - beans, snap peas, zucchini - and maybe some herbs, though I did hold on to my three pots of chive, rosemary, and mint.

We shall see.

For now, I'm entirely satisfied with my new garden boxes just as they are.

* * * * *

More stories about my food gardens, farm-to-table dining, and those lovely home-grown tomatoes:

The Toasted Tomato Sandwich

Backyard Herbs

August Miracle

La Comida En Flora Farms

Growing Season