Monthly Archives: May 2020

The New Normal

 

photo bu Paul Mayer

 

BY KIMBERLY MAYER

We were propped up in bed watching House Hunters International—one of our ways of traveling vicariously while quarantined. The apartment hunt was in Amsterdam and we were torn between a small flat with canal view, and another with no canal view but a rooftop deck.

It was just after 1 am, May 15, when we felt it and heard it. A 3.0 earthquake eight miles deep on island, less than two miles away as a crow flies. It sounded like a sudden gust of wind, and indeed, our house did lurch a little.

“What was that?” we asked each other. We were suddenly out of Amsterdam and back on San Juan Island, Washington.

We asked each other this question, but knew full well. We didn’t live all those years in California for nothing. And so we continued with our house hunt in Amsterdam, my husband favoring the view, while I couldn’t imagine living without the outdoor space.

In subsequent days I inquired whether other islanders experienced the earthquake. Our social circle is particularly small lately due to the Coronavirus pandemic, but I asked our neighbors (there are only two), my book group, and friends on Mount Dallas.

“We didn’t feel a thing,” is all I heard from anyone. Everyone, it turns out, slept through it. And so everything returned to normal, or rather, The New Normal.

There is much to be said for The New Normal aside from the fact that the moon is brighter and there are far more stars in the sky lately. The friends on Mount Dallas are seeing islands beyond all the islands they ever saw before.

I have felt my hair grow over my shoulders and fall onto the small of my back. We’ve so many houseplants indoors now, they color the light in our home. And I take the time to walk them all out to be watered in the rain.

On clear days we step outdoors and hear nothing but birds, a symphony matinee every day. The keening of gulls carries for miles over salt water, from one bay to the next. A friend on island notes, “Something I never tired of, watching quail walk along the top of my rock wall.”

Businessmen are at home writing poetry. Children, learning to bake bread. More thank you notes than we’ve seen in decades are moving through the mail, followed, in many cases, by thank you’s on the thank you notes.

The deer and fox step closer to us now. On every walk I weed my way up the gravel drive, while my husband mows the long dirt road for all the neighbors not here yet. We keep an eye on the empty houses for them.

We are all watching seeds sprout, plants grow, buds open, and flowers bloom. At a time when we haven’t been able to see the children who have flown off, these are our children now. I am now planting Winter Blooming Honeysuckle for the hummingbirds. At a time when even an earthquake doesn’t rattle us anymore, hummingbirds move us immensely.

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The Flight of the Hummingbird

Photo by Paul Mayer

BY KIMBERLY MAYER

 

“I can’t do this,” he said.

My father was a smart man. He may have figured it out. Coronavirus was sweeping through his assisted living facility outside Boston, and everyone was being tested, residents and staff alike.

A modest man, in his own quiet way he was extrordinarily accomplished in his life. But at ninety-six years of age he wasn’t up for something unknown that no one knew how to treat. That much he knew. He read The Boston Globe daily.

“Life goes on until it ends,” that’s what dad always said when he was trying to help me with my inconsolable grief in losing others.

Deeply worried about him, yet unable to be there, I ran off to the nursery to fill three large hanging baskets. I needed something to do. Tired of looking at last summer’s geranium mummies, I’d start over with fresh soil, and—on the drive to town I saw it clearly—hanging fuschia. A nectar producing plant with tube-shaped blooms specially adapted to accommodate the long bills of hummingbirds, my father’s littlest friends.

It was there at the nursery when I received the call. Hospice was by dad’s side now and this was my only chance to say goodbye. I think I said, “I’m at the nursery, daddy. You’d be here too, if you were with me, and we’d be extraordinarily happy.” Something nonsensical like that.

Looking back, purchasing plants at nurseries may have been one of my father’s only indulgences. Together we could spend half the day there filling our wagon, and often did.

I was crying so hard, I was grateful to be masked.

At the same time, my project remained important to me. Julie of Julie’s nursery helped me load trays of twenty-four fuschia starts, eight for each basket, into the back of my car. She advised peat be mixed half and half with potting soil, and an organic flowering fertilizer which looked a bit different than my organic fertilizer at home, so I purchased that too. Julie could have sold me the moon that day, anything in the rush to grow my beautiful baskets.

We set up the planting operation on the picnic table at home. The table Bill Maas built when we first arrived on island. Eight fuchsia starts per basket, hung, and watered gently. They looked so lighthearted and promising beneath the eave. In the evenings we covered the baskets with clear plastic, for it’s still cold. And every morning, the unveiling. There is something in that ritual too.

There are two species of hummingbird on island: Anna’s and Rufous. Native to Western coastal regions, Anna’s Hummingbirds are increasingly found here year-round, living in the branches of our coastal scrub. Rufous Hummingbirds, on the other hand, have the longest migration of any bird their size. Wintering in Mexico, spring in California, summers in the Pacific Northwest and Alaska, and zipping over to the Rocky Mountains for fall before returning to Mexico. Feisty and territorial, the visiting reddish brown Rufous try to chase off the resident emerald green and gray Anna’s each year. So we just keep putting up more feeders and more nectar producing plants to accommodate every one.

When we moved onto San Juan Island, mom and dad’s place on The Cape was very much on our mind. Shingled cottages by the sea. Ragtag fleets of boats by the water’s edge in summer. Clams in the muddy sand. And a writing hut where Dad had had a garden shed. The baby mice that once fell onto the brim of dad’s hat when he was puttering around in the shed. He cared for them too.

Dad has always been with me in writing, in gardening, and now, birds. He wrote his memoir, which prompted me to write mine. He explained Master Gardeners to me as “missionaries of the gardening world, Jesuits for all their knowledge,” and I became one. He led by example in the garden, and now he’s got me loving birds.

“What we care for, we will grow to resemble. And what we resemble will hold us, when we are us no longer…” Richard Powers

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Coronavirus, death of a father, fuschia plants, hummingbirds