The Wind That Almost Broke Me

For anyone who has returned to my blog, you know my two greatest aggravations are the above ground pool we purchased last year (so a recent, but substantial aggravation) and my garden (a long festering continual aggravation). As I wrote in a previous post, I had decided on a different approach to my yearly garden activity with the help of Meenie, and Mr. D's suggestion of choosing one plant to focus on. This year we ended up with green beans enough to choke a small army.

I had to replace one of my two apple saplings when, half way through April, it just stopped growing.  The sapling was unable to sustain itself, but still managed to sprout four other shoots that I was able to salvage. The rest of my trees and bushes were surviving and I felt like I was gonna make it through this season without melting down (again) and then the winds started up. Here in Texas from about March to June is tornado season which means gusty winds almost daily. So every day I was watching with clenched teeth from the window as the the wind whipped my saplings around like rag dolls, the same wind that knocked over the two remaining butt trees (butt trees grow stinky little white flowers in spring) in our yard, at the root. I almost hoped the wind would rip those saplings and bushes out of the ground because then I would'nt have to try anymore.

See, gardening had started as a hobby, something I wanted to do because it was something my Grandma does. Then, it became it a matter of determination. I was going to have a garden. It isn't rocket science for Pete's sake! More recently it is a matter of principle. I've put too much time and money into it to walk away from it. Thus, the hope of watching it blow away. Alas, everything stayed firmly rooted, which is so sad. The part where I was disappointed that it survived was sad.

But that came back around and slapped me across the face because I thought if the saplings and potted plants managed to stay upright, everything was copacetic, right?

Not remotely.

Mr. D was in the back yard one Saturday when a slight (and I am not over stating when I say slight) breeze came through. He came inside and hesitantly informed me that one of my grapevines had just been blown over..................................................................................................................................

Have you ever felt betrayed?

I walked outside to take a look and there, on it's side, was one of my two potted grapevines. I. Lost. My. Crap. It wasn't because the grapevine that had fallen over was the one that established roots from the pot into the ground and was thus the stronger vine, even though it was. It wasn't because I had placed a fence around it to protect the vine from my dogs and the wind had taken the fence with it and crushed my vine inside it, which it did. No, it was the path the wind had to take in order to knock my grapevine over.

Fence, garden box, plants and junk

 This "slight wind" had to travel through the backyard fence and past this garden box I built for giggles and kicks.

The greenhouse

The grapevine

And then pass through this greenhouse which currently holds dead flowers because it is August in Texas. The little garden bed in front also has dead flowers because it's still August in Texas. One of the apple saplings is in the wooden box.



And this is the grapevine. Notice the fence surrounding the pot. Furthermore notice the size of the gaps in the holes of the fences that surrounds the pot. Somebody explain to me how on God's green earth a slight wind, or even a blustery one, could have traveled across the yard and knocked over that vine, fence and all. I am not kidding when I say I came unglued.

I was angry for a couple of weeks and here's why. I have strong faith in God and Jesus Christ. I know He answers our prayers and is aware of each of us and our struggles. I know He loves us and cares about things that are important to us. However, I have prayed over this garden non-stop and it has been an uphill battle. This was just the last straw. Mr. D doesn't understand. He kept telling me that sometimes things just happen. I get that, but there were some extreme machinations for this to have occurred. If God can split the Dead sea so the children of Israel could cross on dry ground or create water from a rock or perform any of a hundred little miracles, surely he could deflect a little wind.

This felt like a purposeful thing and it almost broke me. I began to wonder, how can I pray for help when not only will the Lord not help me, but seems to go out of His way to thwart my efforts. I don't need help killing my garden, I could do that on my own so what was the point of praying?

Except, Heavenly Father doesn't do things to be mean. I was talking to a friend, telling her how angry I felt and how pointless it felt praying for help when I could accomplish the same level of killing my garden on my own when she kind of chuckled and said, "if you don't want to pray, then you really need to." So I started praying to understand the reason or the lesson I needed to learn from this experience. Mr. D still feels it is a case of "sometimes things just happen." Maybe it is because I still don't have an answer, but I'm not angry anymore. Maybe that was the point.

I'm open to suggestions.

Larry, Darryl and Darryl...

I watched this show when I was a kid called "Newhart" starring Bob Newhart. He owned a hotel and there was a trio of brothers who were in every episode. Only one brother ever spoke and he always said the same thing- "Hello, my name is Larry. This is my brother Darryl and my other brother, Darryl."

I always found that amusing...

Just like I remember them.

Until I got married. See what had happened was, I married a man who had the same name as one of my brothers. I also happened to have a very similar name to his mother, but we have common names so I guess I can't complain. However, I still plan to. Anecdote inserted here: my brother who has the same name as my husband went on one date with a girl whose name is the same as mine. He said she was nice enough, but he just couldn't be responsible for adding another couple with the same name to the family. Technically, they would be Pricketts and we would be Davidsons, but would we want to have to make those distinctions at family gatherings? Or be referred to as senior and junior or first and second. My mother already struggles with which man we are speaking of when using the common name of my husband and brother. She's really the only one who can't manage, but throw two of my name in the mix and she'd go into a tailspin from which she'd never recover. 

However, just to make things simple for myself, I started calling my brother by his first and middle name once Mr. D and I were married because there are certain situations where one needs to be able to call to ones husband from another room and have ones husband respond and not ones brother. For example, if one has found oneself in the "meditation chamber" sans toilet paper because the last time one looked there was plenty, but there are two very young little girls in the home who are still learning moderation in their toilet paper usage.

Whew! Tangent. Back to the point.

One more minute. I referred to my brother by his full name for ten years until one day we got into a discussion that led to a warm argument. At one point I used his name and he snapped that he hated that I called him by his full name and why did I start doing that? I was kind of stunned for a minute. I guess it didn't occur to him that the change started when I got married and it didn't occur to me to tell him why I started using it. So now I use his initials. It's worked out for our nieces and nephews, who have two uncles with the same name.

I never really liked my given name so my pen name suits me just fine. In fact, I prefer it. I have no problem answering to my given name if that is how one knew me originally, but the fewer people who know my legal name, the better. I wouldn't be sad if it was lost to the sands of time, but I digress.

Since Mr. D and I were, er, bestowed with common names, I was desirous to give my own children monikers with more distinction. Nothing crazy or impossible to spell (I thought) but something that would keep them from ending up being one of several in their class. They already had Davidson working against them (sorry babe, it's true) they needed something to help distinguish them from every one else. 

Oh boy.

When we named Eenie, I didn't realize there were so many different ways people could imagine her name was spelled. I thought I chose a simple direct spelling. It is almost never anyone's first choice. Or even third. Also, her name tends to sound like initials which leads to various and sundry letter combinations beginning with her first Thanksgiving when my cousin asked if she could hold "PJ". Well, shoot. It was too late to change her name by then. 

Then there was the time when my brood of two and I went to a McRestaurant where I let Eenie and Meenie play for a spell. When it was time to go, Meenie was at my side cheeking a bite of McBurger she'd been chewing for almost fifteen minutes, but still refused to swallow, when I called across the McPlayground, "Eenie! Come hither!"

I heard her sweet little voice echo from inside the McTube that she was on her way when this woman behind me asked if I'd just called for an Eenie. I told her I had just as Eenie popped out of the end of the tube. The woman looked relieved and mentioned she had a daughter named Eenie, too. She mentioned her Eenie's middle name was (insert middle name) and I was kinda irritated. Eenie's middle name is the same! Thankfully she has a different last name. For now.

I thought I was really mixing it up with Miney until we found another little girl with the same name living on our street.

Honestly, there aren't an abundance of people running around with the same names as my children. So it's not as bad, as say, having the same name as your brothers or sisters.

I promise I will never complain about names again.

Let me take you back about a hundred years to a place called Mexico. The population is mostly Catholic and it is tradition to name your children after Saints and family...but mostly saints. And the favorite Saints are Jesus and Mary (or Maria). My Gramma and I went to Humble to visit my cousin D for a couple of days at the beginning of this month. It was the first time in all my years I've really had the opportunity to talk to her (my Gramma).

My cousin is more Mexican than me. Her mother and father were both from Mexico. My grandfather was white so my mother is half white. My father is white so I am even more more diluted. My cousin is immersed in her Mexican side. She speaks fluent Spanish, listens to Spanish music and watches Telanovela. I have never been with my Gramma in this kind of an environment. She spoke Spanish almost exclusively herself and even though I don't speak much, I understood more and more of what they were saying. I loved every minute of it. 

Anyway, I managed to finally get my Gramma's mother's maiden name out of her, a task I have failed at for over ten years. It is crazy what one can find with accurate information. For example:

Gramma's mothers name was Maria... as was her sister's name. And her other sister's name, and her fourth sisters name.

All four sisters' first names were Maria. I kid you not. They did have different middle names. However, the brothers were a little more tricky. There were two Jesus and two Carlos. They also had clarifying middle names, but their last name was Gutierrez.

That's like the United Stated equivalent of Jones. Mary Jones and her sisters, Mary, Mary and Mary. And her brothers John and John and Carl and Carl.

I was recently working on my sister-in-laws family tree. Her family is just as name crazy as mine except their name of choice (one her paternal side) is Willie. Directly down her line is Willie, Willie, Carl, Willie and for variety, Willie. At one point, one of her ancestors, Willie, married a woman name...Willie. Do you know what her father's name was? Floyd.

Haha! 

Wait...Do you hear that? It's the bus I'm about to throw my sister-in-law under! It's not really her fault. We're all victims of what our parents named us. However, my sweet Doly, her mother loved her own name so much she gave it to all three of her daughters, in different variations. There's the root name and a unique ending; enette, eneth, and olynette. One of those endings belong to her mother. The third daughter was gifted with a mashup of her mother and fathers name. It's pretty creative.

They all have some version of Maria as their middle name. Maria, Marie...I feel like 90% of the female population sports Marie in some variation as their middle name. My mother in law does. Last night I was thinking about all the variations of Mary that I am currently aware of; Mary, Maria, Marie...Did you know Martha is also a variation of Mary/Maria? If I thought my name was common before, realizing my middle name is a variation of one of the most common names ever was a poke in the eye. 

Hello, I'm Mary, this is my great Grandmother Mary and my great Aunt Mary and my other great Aunt Mary and my other, other great Aunt Mary.