I’ve had a hard time adjusting to Midwest living. People up here have laughed at me for twenty years because I’ve never acclimated to the cold. The problem is they are satisfied with an anemic version of heat —any temperature higher than 800 practically gives them the vapors, and where I’m from, that’s fall weather. The first winter I lived through in Cincinnati was rough. Snow was deep on the ground by Thanksgiving, and none of us had winter boots. So when the end of February came around, I was really ready for daffodils. Needless to say, I was disappointed. The daffodils were smarter than that.
But summer eventually comes bringing warmth to Ohio. Right now, my zone 6 English roses are blooming like crazy. All seems lovely and fragrant, but beneath the ground, getting ready to rumble are teenage beetle larvae— shiny little pests from Japan, a species of scarab beetle I can do without. Each year, this annual invasion into my floral paradise forces me to adjust my course, to work out a defense. Usually, I do battle with non-toxic weapons, and last week the treatment of choice was diatomaceous earth, which sucks the oils from insects leaving them crispy and deceased— a good, but gruesome solution. I knew I had some powder. . . somewhere.
Diatoms weren’t always hard to find. Back in my college days (when the earth was young), they were easy to detect because they were on neatly labeled microscope slides in neatly labeled boxes. But today, because I’d put the container in a safe place (safe as in forgettable) it took me over a half hour to locate 4 pounds of them. When I finally found that bag, it was right where it should have been—only it was a different color than I’d remembered, and I overlooked it.
It’s a fact: tasks in this 7th decade of life are harder than they used to be. Not only does my memory need boosting, but my right knee and left hip are competing to see which can throw me off balance quicker when I walk across the yard. This makes me a bit grumpy. The other day, in the pool, one of my shoulders started to complain and I corrected it out loud: “Shut up,” I snapped. Frankly, I’m falling apart and it’s hard to get used to. It’s like Japanese beetle larvae have been hiding beneath my skin and are now emerging to take random chunks out of me.
My husband had major chunks taken out of him that last year of his life. Ironically, chemo took his strength, but not his desire to work. One fine spring morning, he wanted to plant tomatoes, so he plunked himself down in a lawn chair and watched me do it, giving me, I might add, plenty of advice along the way. When I had completed the task according to his specifications, a neat little row of tomato plants stood staked and fertilized, ready to grow. He got up, slow and slightly unsteady, and stared at them for a minute. Then he grinned, blue eyes twinkling. “We got ‘er done,” he said. That was all. No complaints. No sighs for past strength. A tiny tutorial in patience and adjusting— one I wish I’d remembered when I got so frazzled about the bug killer. Adjusting is rarely smooth, simple or straightforward. It takes creativity and a bit of grit. I think I’m beginning to get the hang of it. Better late than never.
