SOME THOUGHTS ON WISTERIA
For years I’ve read fiction based in the South in which wisteria vines featured prominently in the background. Wisteria vines bring to mind cups of tea on the veranda enjoyed by frail little old ladies sipping with pinky fingers raised. Or dark, malevolent screened porches, with a dead body, pouring rain and flashes of lightning. Or hot as Hades summer days in Mississippi or trips to the Cotton Exchange in Savannah. Wisteria vines always add an air of gentility to the scene in a plot with sunshine, or pile on suspense in a mystery novel.
So you can imagine my delight when I discovered wisteria vines growing along our deck railings at the home we moved into not long ago. Providentially, our vines sported long purple blooms the week we arrived. I imagined drinking iced tea with my book group friends on hot summer evenings, surrounded by wisteria vines gently nodding in the breeze. I just knew that my vines would add to the mystique of my new home.
Since then I’ve learned a lot about wisteria. Did you know, for instance, that wisteria grows about a foot every hour? The first time I sat on our deck to read in the sunshine, it was only a few minutes before I noticed shadows creeping over the pages of my book. Looking up, I realized that the vine near my head seemed much closer than it had moments before. Surely I have Alzheimer’s, I thought, having just finished reading Still Alice. But no, moments later a small tendril wrapped itself around my wrist. I flicked it away and continued reading until two more vines wrapped themselves around my body. Ok, I thought. I’d better do a little trimming here before I finish my book.
I pulled my Christmas Tree Shop canvas yard barrel onto the deck to catch the clippings, slipped on my Carol Rock leather gardening gloves and grasping the clippers firmly, began to snip vines. I quickly learned that when I grabbed a vine and pulled it toward me to clip, it extended 10 feet more than I expected. Curly little buggers, I thought. (And of course they’d be curly; you’d have to be curly to be genteel or menacing…) Well, so it will take me a little longer than I thought. No problem—having wisteria is worth a little extra work.
An hour and two yard bags full of clippings later, either I had not made a dent in the wisteria or it was growing back faster than I could cut it. As this dark little thought flapped through my brain, I heard a vigorous crunching in the woods just off our yard, followed by what sounded like horses snorting and more crunching. Even the dogs looked alarmed. I went in the house. locked all the doors and waited until the crunching stopped. Much later I read that when bears (!) feel threatened, they snort like horses. Maybe bears are afraid of wisteria vines too.
Oh yeah, wisteria vines. Well, anyways, I went back to clipping when the bears left. I clipped for another hour or two, until I could tell the vines were trimmed. A week later, the vines looked lovely as they wound around what had been my deck chairs and table. Not discouraged, I headed out again with my Carol Rock gloves and clippers, and threw myself into the vines, in a hacking and slashing frenzy. By this time the vines had overtaken the eaves on the house and were forcing themselves under the siding. They had grown down the legs of the deck and were growing back up through the floorboards. I found vines 5 inches in diameter toward the center of the growth. Or at least I think they were big vines—it was hard to tell because it was pretty darn dark in there. I couldn’t even see our house from inside the wisteria.
It was while I was sawing at the interior vines that I began to feel thousands of deer tics hopping off the vines into my hair. I started swatting and scratching and imagining myself covered with bull’s eye rashes, lying in the hospital with IV antibiotics streaming into my veins. I decided it probably wasn’t so important to get the big vines in the middle.
I returned to clipping around the edges, until I began wondering if there were any creatures that could live in wisteria bushes. Heck, for all I knew, there could be weasels, badgers, porcupines, or skunks in there. The damn bush was big enough to support a whole colony of critters. Nah, I thought. Nah. I decided I had done enough clipping for the day, and returned my tools to the garage.
A few days later I was watching TV in the family room when I thought I saw something moving on the deck. It was a groundhog, scurrying across the deck flooring to disappear under the wisteria. Maybe I didn’t just see that, I thought, and returned to the TV. But no, wait, there it was again. In fact, the little guy (or girl—I’m not good at sexing groundhogs yet) toddled right up to the lowest pane of the French door, placed his paws delicately on the glass and leaned forward to peer into the house. Then he calmly disappeared into the vines again. (And he was limping, by the way, so I’ve been worried about him. On the other hand, maybe he was rabid and is out there waiting for me.)
I haven’t bothered much with the wisteria vines lately. And I can’t see my deck anymore, but the vines are thriving. One final wisteria thought: could the damn deer eat wisteria? They eat everything else: flowers, shrubs, my holly bushes, trees—heck, I’m surprised they don’t let themselves in while we’re away and eat our houseplants. But they do not eat wisteria.
The next time you’re watching a National Geographic TV show on the glories of nature, don’t be fooled. It’s dangerous out here!

Okay. We are now officially residents of Chester, NY. Today the dogs went bonkers barking from the windows. They used to do this when they saw deer, but there are so many deer, they basically don't pay any attention to them at this point. So Gary decided to see what they were barking at, and he said there was a bear in our front yard. I laughed at this, assuming that he saw a tree trunk or the neighbor's dog (who is as big as a bear). However, a few minutes later, he said, "Look in the brush. There is the bear." I scuttled right over to the window, and lo and behold, there were TWO huge bears (by the time this info hits my Christmas letter, those bears will be bigger than King Kong, but for now they were probably about 200 to 300 pounds--plenty big enough to eat me for lunch and the dogs for dessert) meandering through our yard. They wandered around for a bit, then headed up Fields Lane, then came back and wandered around in our yard again (they have probably identified our yard as THE place to be in 2008) and headed back up the road. Gary and I had returned from a walk about an hour earlier. Huh. No more walks in the wilderness for this writer.
Due to my highly scientific nature, I immediately headed to the computer to research bear encounters. I googled "What should I do if I encounter a black bear?" and spent the next 30 minutes developing a family safety plan. Tomorrow I am hitting the outdoor and sports stores, with a side trip to CVS to buy first aid equipment just in case my plan of protection fails. (Of course, you could point out here that if my plan fails there probably won't be enough of me left to apply first aid to, but let's not go there just yet...) Anyway, if I encounter a bear (and assuming that the loss of bodily secretions from every orifice I own doesn't cause me to faint from sudden dehydration), I learned that I should remain calm (HUH! Like that's going to happen) and if the bear hasn't seen me, I should back slowly (HUH again) away from the bear, staying downwind. If I am upwind or the bear has already seen me, however, I am instructed to make myself as big as possible (right, the only time being big has ever been beneficial and they tell me AFTER I've lost 60 pounds), putting my arms out and once again backing slowly away and talking calmly to the bear (ostensibly so the bear will recognize that I am human and therefore not a snack). If the bear persists in viewing me as snack material and begins advancing in my direction, I am directed not to run (HUH). Instead I am to remain calm but begin flailing my arms (this part will not be difficult) and making as much noise as I possibly can. Normally, of course (though this may surprise you), I am quite capable of making lots of noise. With my luck, and with my dehydrated body, should I encounter a bear, I will probably not be able to make a sound (and even if I remember not to run, I'll probably slip in my bodily secretions as I back slowly (HUH) away from the bear. I am instructed to climb a tree if possible. (By "if possible" I think they meant if there were suitable trees available. I don't think they envisioned me trying to hoist my tuckus up the apple tree in the front yard. I will thank you not to envision that either.) Oh yes, and I am not supposed to make eye contact with the bear. (Eye contact--are they nuts?!! If I ever meet a bear, I will forget I even HAVE eyes!!!!)
By this time tomorrow I will have the Page family safety kits in working order. I will leave the house with air horn in hand, whistle in my mouth, running shoes on my feet, and my Finnish pukko (fighting knife) strapped to my side. I might even get me a gun, although with a gun I would probably present more of a danger to self and other humans than to the bears. I might also bring a pot and wooden spoon for some extra noise-making capacity, and I think I will also slick myself up with something that smells particularly non-foodlike. Your suggestions as to what smells might repel bears are most welcome.
Of course, I haven't yet figured out how fast I can run from the front door to the car, but I'm willing to bet I'll be pretty damn fast. And tomorrow morning Gary has to put the garbage in the trunk and drive it to the end of Fields Lane. I bet he'll put it in the car faster than he ever has before. I wonder what time bears go to bed/wake up. I hope they don't eat him.
So think of me slipping from house to car like a little (non-foodlike) shadow, and keep your fingers crossed that bears don't like to eat middle-aged women. If nothing else, all the stress will probably knock off a couple more pounds. Maybe I'll make a documentary about living with the bears in Chester, NY. I bet you all wish you could live here, too. Maybe some day your luck will turn!
Kathy

Wanderings of an Idle Mind

Four followers! Wow. I thought by now I'd have at least 3,251 followers--just think what they're all missing. I am pondering my next topics...Yoga, Dog Training, Metals Class. Any suggestions?

Corporate Wife

Last week I attended the annual meeting of Gary's company in NYC. I am so not a corporate wife--in fact, this is only the second meeting I've attended in the 20 years he's been with the company. But he received his 20 year service award, AND it was in NYC--hotel, travel, and most meals paid for, with a bus tour of Manhattan to boot--who could refuse?
Now many of you may have noted that NYC had a major snowstorm last week, which of course arrived on the day we were to drive to NY. This is nothing new; every year there is a snowstorm during the annual meeting, and the meeting has been held in Chicago for the past few years, so Gary is always trying to catch a flight in or out of NY before the airports shut down. This year was no different, and we drove 12 miles an hour from home to the hotel in Brooklyn. I am convinced we could have driven to Chicago faster than we got to NY. Ironically, Chicago was free of snow this year. (God has such a twisted sense of humor.)
You might ask why the company continues to schedule annual meetings in the dead of winter when half the employees can't get there until the meeting is almost over. Here is the answer: because it has to be before (or after, I forget which) the big annual meeting in Omaha, which is also in the dead of winter. Coming from the social work world, I am continually amazed by the imagination of engineers. This time of year, I receive flyers for mental health conferences in Key West or Phoenix, or on a cruise in the Caribbean. These conferences have intriguing titles, like 'Madness and Creativity.' Gary receives flyers for conferences in Cleveland (in the coldest month of the year, mind you) entitled 'Sludge.' Yet these same engineers build soaring bridges in the trickiest places under the most trying conditions. Go figure. (On the other hand, maybe 'sludge' in Cleveland is really a bootcamp for weeding out the weak...sort of a Darwinian challenge for engineers.)
Oops. Back to the annual meeting and corporate wifery. I actually had to participate in only 2 dinners and the bus tour. I am sure that I do Gary's career no good when I go to these things. I alternate between bored silly and Barney, depending on the event. I smiled so much on the bus tour that I had a headache for two days. (Smiling I can do. Wifely chitchat and playing 'who's husband is more important' is harder. ) After touring Manhattan for 3 hours, I had my hand clapped over my mouth (to prevent any sort of corporate Tourette's which would have resulted in Gary losing his job). I hope no one noticed that I pushed everyone out of the way to be the first one off the bus. This would be my bored silly mode. The Barney mode is a little more subtle--well, okay, maybe not subtle. Not dignified, either. Or friendly. More like manic. In this mode, I am likely to approach other employee couples with a huge smile (as I age, the Van Kennen lips get ever more prominent, which can sometimes make a smile a tad more leering than I intend), thrust out my hand, and say something very subtle (subtle being my specialty, you've noticed) like "Hi. I'm Kathy Page. Who (the hell) are you?" I just think the hell part, though. I think. Sometimes it's hard to remember when I've been in the wifely mode for extended periods of time. Sometimes I am smoother than this, though, when I don't have the energy to shape my lips into a smile--I just lean over to peer at people's chests (the nametag, the nametag!) so that I can get the name without actually having to talk. I usually remember to clap my hand over my own nametag when I do this, so that people can't report me to hotel security.
The dinners are a little more difficult. I spent half an hour finding a dress to wear, and then 3 weeks finding undergarments that could squish the maximum amount of fat into the smallest space without forcing it (the fat) up into my head or down into my ankles (which would cause me to balloon into gargantuan proportions on either end), or causing my intestines to implode. This is actually a tricky balance, but one I am quite practiced at. I actually looked pretty damn good, although being an engineer, Gary failed to notice. (I bet he could have calculated my body fat percentage within a small margin, if I had asked, though.) Looking spiffy, we proceeded to the dinner, where I was once again forced into chit chat with people who talk math for fun. I smiled and nodded a lot, and then smiled some more. (Here, in all honesty, I must admit that I occasionally forget myself in such gatherings, and begin to ask social work questions, like: "Have you always had this drinking problem?" Or "My goodness, your mother failed you in many ways, didn't she?" Until I notice Gary giving me the eye. Then I start smiling and nodding again. Sometimes a kindly engineer notices my glazed look as they discuss an engineering concept and will try to explain. After about half an hour or explaining math to a social worker, they generally give up, though.)
On the last day of the conference, Gary voted to ditch the dinner and we went out for pizza. I am proud of him. Maybe in another 25 years he'll be a social worker! (Because if he keeps letting me go to these conferences, he'll probably be forced find a new job...or institutionalize me. Don't tell him about the institutionalize part, though. I prefer he not know that's an option.)

Who woulda thunk?

Who woulda thunk I could figure out how to start a blog? From there it's a greal leap to assume anyone will be interested in reading what I have to say, but it's a world full of narcissism, and hey, why not?