Once upon a time...a long, long time ago....I had the privilege of working at a greenhouse in Miles City. First, for Jim (who kept an ice cream freezer in the breakroom for us and I believe was only in the greenhouse business to grow enviously large tomatoes), then for his son Justin (who does NOT have an ice cream freezer or a passion for tomatoes, but does have an incredible business plan and expanded the place exponentially).
It was one of the best jobs I've ever had.
Actually, the job had me.
It's tough work...very physical and dirty, you're on your feet all day, constantly in motion. Customers sometimes want impossible things; plants that they insist will survive in Montana, chartreuse foliage on an evergreen, some little pink flower that Aunt Mae grew in HER garden 40 years ago but who knows the name. On hot days, you think you might melt into a dirty puddle of Miracle Gro and sweat.
It's very calming, very creative work. The colors sing all around you, the air is filled with moisture and oxygen so your skin feels great, most everyone who comes to the greenhouse is instantly in a good mood and full of ideas. One customer in particular that I happened to luckily stumble across in the perennial greenhouse apparently had no financial constraints whatsoever and she wanted help. Boy, did we have fun! I spent about two hours with her, designing beds, filling pots, loading carts...we hugged when she left and I've always wondered how it turned out.
I would've worked there for free.
And still do, sometimes....
For some reason, when I go to MCG, I always end up helping people find plants, toting around big pink geraniums to match with the perfect lobelia, or talking some poor soul into trying the Cherokee purple tomatoes. I deadhead constantly, and usually have to hand over a fist full of my gleanings in order to write the check for my own purchases. I check the moisture of the soil, without thinking, in pots and four packs. I note the mislabeled herbs and try to find the proper places and tags.
Last Monday, I made my big trip to the greenhouse for my tomato plants and some annuals. And to say hello to all the plants and apologize for not being able to bring them all home to live with me. And to look at Jim's tomatoes with mouth hanging open. (He still does a lot of the watering and I always hunt him down to collect my hug.) I almost made it out of there, was walking toward the door thinking about getting my plants home, when I encountered the cutest old couple you can imagine.
Now, I don't know about you, but little old couples make me smile...even the grouchy ones. There's something about how they can finish each other's sentences, roll their eyes and wink at the same time, move slowly and in unison. And this little old couple...
Well, he had a perfect straw fedora, plaid cotton shirt buttoned to the chin, jeans nearly up to his armpits and what looked to me like a permanent smile. She was wearing polyester everything, packing a very serviceable purse in the crook of her arm, and was quite busily sorting through the geraniums, trying to find two that were the same color. The more she shuffled them, the harder it got to figure out which was which, and I could tell it was really starting to get on her nerves a little. The old gentleman smiled as I paused to see if I could help and she looked up and briskly inquired if I worked there. Well, no, I don't but I could maybe help...
I asked what color she was looking for and she raised a pot (indiscriminately, I think...any old pink geranium would do, at that point, as long as it had the EXACT match). I checked the label, found its mate and started to bid them good day. But now she needed a green trailing plant to go with them. It had to be green. It had to be trailing. She didn't know WHAT it was, but she had to have it. I gave up trying to slip away and just devoted myself to finding the green vine. I must've held up 20 different types...none right. I asked questions about leaf shapes, textures, depth of color and found several more specimen....none right. Finally, she spotted a plant that was neither green NOR trailing, and decided THAT was the one. (Her dear husband had long since abandoned the project and was sitting on a little bench, smiling and soaking up sun. My kids were following Jim around and playing hide and seek with the greenhouse cats.) As I was packing her plants to the counter, she stopped suddenly and looked at me...truly seeing me for the first time....and said, "Do you work here?"
Well, NOW I do...
Yesterday, I finally got all my purchases planted in their proper pots and beds, telling them what pretty little things they are and how happy we would all be together, and thought about the greenhouse. And the old couple with the matching geraniums and their green vine-y plant that was neither of those adjectives. I hope she doesn't blame the "help" at the greenhouse when her pots don't look like she thought they would....
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Here comes the sun...
Angus has been singing that all day!
And here's why:
Our propane tank has been a very odd shade of green for a year....driving my in-laws crazy, I believe....but there was a reason for the funky color. Really, there was!
I had a picture in my head, born in countless MASBO workshop doodling sessions, that I wanted to project on that big, blank canvas of sorts.
In the beginning...
And here's why:
Our propane tank has been a very odd shade of green for a year....driving my in-laws crazy, I believe....but there was a reason for the funky color. Really, there was!
I had a picture in my head, born in countless MASBO workshop doodling sessions, that I wanted to project on that big, blank canvas of sorts.
In the beginning...
...less than exciting, right?
But wait!
Halfway there.....
Finished product!
Much better. Not perfect, but much better.
Dutton-ness
Okay, so I'm a little different.
I understand what animals are saying and translate it for my kids. (They really believe I have this ability!) I'm one from a long line of animal understanders.
Storytelling...we have to tell stories or we'll explode. Really. Most Duttons are GREAT storytellers; I'm an amateur amongst the great ones, but someday...
There's a lot of whimsy, a lot of mischief and eternal teasing. If Duttons like you, they'll tease you. And nickname you, but that's another post.
One of the masters of all traits was my Great Uncle Joe. There isn't enough time or room in a blog post to begin to describe him; I won't try. He was one of the four most important men in my childhood, someone who ALWAYS had time for me, always made me believe I was someone special no matter what. But reading this, you'll see where I come from and why I am who I am...
Once upon a time, when I was seven years old, I wrote to the Easter Bunny with a special request as to the placement of my Easter Basket. (Yes, even then...an odd person...) I remember writing the letter, actually, and addressing it to Easter Island, carefully putting the stamp on the envelope and Mom mailed it at Sand Springs.
Sand Springs Store and Post Office...now there's a book! My Uncle Joe and Aunt Daisy were the proprietors/post masters and a thousand other roles; the center of our little community. My Mom worked there and that's where Uncle Joe got ahold of the letter, bless his heart.
This is not a man who just sat around, reading the paper and growing old. He was a pilot, helped fix wells, volunteered as ambulance personnel and so forth. But he loved people, and his family especially. Uncle Joe (I mean, the Easter Bunny) took time to send this response to me:
Thrills!!!
Of course, I immediately wrote back, apparently reluctant to sleep by the creek as suggested.
This was the letter I recieved in response:
The letter reads:
*In explanation, regarding the name of my horse, Gross. It was NOT MY CHOICE!!! My Dad has this habit of naming horses after the person he bought them from. I was told that he bought my fat little sorrel from a guy with the pitiable last name of Gross. I suffered right along with him, because other kids had horses with names like Brownie or Joe.
Anyway, back to the story...
My Easter basket WAS by my bed that year, but never again.
I truly believed in the Easter Bunny for many, many years longer than I ever believed in Santa. After all, I had proof!
I'm so very grateful to my Mom for saving these letters for me. They are dear as can be, and when I read them, I can see Uncle Joe in his cozy, cluttered office, typing and drawing and laughing to himself.
I'm so very grateful I grew up in a family that pretended as automatically and naturally as sneezing and who showed us that it should continue though all our lives. This summer is another Dutton family reunion...I can't WAIT to be among my own, again!
I understand what animals are saying and translate it for my kids. (They really believe I have this ability!) I'm one from a long line of animal understanders.
Storytelling...we have to tell stories or we'll explode. Really. Most Duttons are GREAT storytellers; I'm an amateur amongst the great ones, but someday...
There's a lot of whimsy, a lot of mischief and eternal teasing. If Duttons like you, they'll tease you. And nickname you, but that's another post.
One of the masters of all traits was my Great Uncle Joe. There isn't enough time or room in a blog post to begin to describe him; I won't try. He was one of the four most important men in my childhood, someone who ALWAYS had time for me, always made me believe I was someone special no matter what. But reading this, you'll see where I come from and why I am who I am...
Once upon a time, when I was seven years old, I wrote to the Easter Bunny with a special request as to the placement of my Easter Basket. (Yes, even then...an odd person...) I remember writing the letter, actually, and addressing it to Easter Island, carefully putting the stamp on the envelope and Mom mailed it at Sand Springs.
Sand Springs Store and Post Office...now there's a book! My Uncle Joe and Aunt Daisy were the proprietors/post masters and a thousand other roles; the center of our little community. My Mom worked there and that's where Uncle Joe got ahold of the letter, bless his heart.
This is not a man who just sat around, reading the paper and growing old. He was a pilot, helped fix wells, volunteered as ambulance personnel and so forth. But he loved people, and his family especially. Uncle Joe (I mean, the Easter Bunny) took time to send this response to me:
In this envelope:
Thrills!!!
Of course, I immediately wrote back, apparently reluctant to sleep by the creek as suggested.
This was the letter I recieved in response:
The letter reads:
*In explanation, regarding the name of my horse, Gross. It was NOT MY CHOICE!!! My Dad has this habit of naming horses after the person he bought them from. I was told that he bought my fat little sorrel from a guy with the pitiable last name of Gross. I suffered right along with him, because other kids had horses with names like Brownie or Joe.
Anyway, back to the story...
My Easter basket WAS by my bed that year, but never again.
I truly believed in the Easter Bunny for many, many years longer than I ever believed in Santa. After all, I had proof!
I'm so very grateful to my Mom for saving these letters for me. They are dear as can be, and when I read them, I can see Uncle Joe in his cozy, cluttered office, typing and drawing and laughing to himself.
I'm so very grateful I grew up in a family that pretended as automatically and naturally as sneezing and who showed us that it should continue though all our lives. This summer is another Dutton family reunion...I can't WAIT to be among my own, again!
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