The Cucumber Condumdrum

I am beginning to wonder if I have an unhealthy relationship with my vegetable garden.

 Last year, I was seduced by a zucchini.  For more on that, I call your attention to last year's solitary blog. This year, I’m having trouble breaking from a high-maintenance relationship with cucumbers.  

After purchasing salt and spices, vinegar jugs and canning jars —the out-of-pocket price easily exceeding that of the commercial pickles readily assessable in the grocery aisle—my husband and I sliced, salted, and spiced gallons of cucumbers into pickles. There were the dill varieties, (hoping that one will be the perfect meeting of garlic and dill and crunchiness) and the obligatory old-family-recipe bread and butter variety. I even went out on a limb and processed the never-to-be-repeated (it-only-took-four-days-of-work) sweet gherkin. 

I get it. I was the one who planted four hills of five plants, but still. The vines go on and on, flowering and fruiting, either not caring or not aware of what it costs the harvester slaving away in her kitchen.

What is it about the human gardener species so loath to uproot a still producing vine? Are the dog days of summer interfering with normal brain function? Is an over-developed conscience whispering warnings against slaying the innocent?  Has the gardening experience formed her kind into some pitiable, amateur philosopher, wasting not but wanting to? 

 No matter which way you slice it, it's mental.

In this 2019 growing season, I had my sights set on one thing only: sinking my teeth into an ear of sweet corn. In anticipation, I planted four short rows, behind the four cucumber hills. How many kernels of sweet ears did I enjoy? 

Zilch. Zero. Nada. 

The raccoons ate it all.

They won’t touch the cucs.

Della's Song

Last spring, just after moving to Horn Lake, Mississippi, I met Della on the street. Sometimes she was riding her bicycle.  More often she was walking the dogs:  a sweet, old beagle named Daisy and a pug named Otis that seemed more susine than canine.

Della's hands shook.  She got stuck in the middle of conversations, when the word she was about to speak evaporated, like morning dew. She could never remember my name.

Della and I have much in common:  we were directors of liturgical music; we taught music education in Catholic Schools.  I did so periodically; Della did so for 42 years.  Differences aside, we both love making music.

Last year, Della's son took away her driving license. (Sheriff's deputy's can arrange for that sort of thing, I suppose).  She could no longer attend Mass or sing in her parish choir.  A few people offered to bring her, but you know how that goes.  

Last month Steven and I decided to pick up the slack, switching from our Mississippi parish to Della's beloved St. Paul's in Memphis, Tennessee.  How happy the people of St. Pau's were to see her.  How grateful they were to Steven and me for bringing their Della back to them.  

In a token of thanks, Della gave me a copy of her vocal CD, recorded well before the onset of Parkinson's disease. I cringed. Several people have happily given me their musical CD's over the years. Most are - well - so very average. Della's astonished me. Her voice sounded so much like Olivia Newton John in her prime. 

Della thinks we are doing all the giving in this new relationship. But that's not true. In a world ever in motion, spinning endlessly toward some unseen end, Della moves slowly and patiently through unknown waters with humor and grace.  

Della still can’t remember my name, and she no longer rides her bicycle. Her musical form has changed. She often listens quietly or hums along as the words escape her. But when she does sing, few things on earth compare.

Parkinson's disease:  a chronic and progressive movement disorder
in which symptoms continue and worsen over time.
The cause is unknown; there is presently no cure.