Mama Told Me There'd Be Days Like This

You've probably heard my story about the cardinal on my deck.

No?

Okay. Here it is in a cupful of words.

I was still in my pajamas at almost noon. Where was everyone else in my life that day? Work, school? I'd been watching morning television programs absently, my mind sunk in the hollow of my heart. Thinking maybe coffee would shock me into action, I stood at the kitchen sink rinsing the pot, looking onto the barren deck, a weathered gray slab stacked with empty planters. A crust of spring snow whitened the rails and corners, but in this landscape, there was nothing to relieve my spirit. Yeah, mama told me there'd be days like this.

And then!--a plump cardinal perched on my brick windowsill, his peppercorn eyes searching mine through the glass, his lush red an invitation to beauty. In that moment, I breathed more fully than I had for a long time. Here's what he told me:  "There is beauty all around you."

And so there is.

Here is some beauty from my day:

 

Gary found this fashionably-striped caterpillar while turning over our kitchen garden.

Our new friend appears to be at home in the spectacular lantana I've just planted. Dear CP, please wear your black and green stripes when you come back as a butterfly.

 

Purple frills and an orange nasturtium just may cause a flower riot.

 

My husband has planted enough pepper plants---banana (sweet and hot), jalepeno, chili--to open a cannery, and my lone zucchini plant was cast out of our small garden. "You're going to keep the pot on the deck?" Mr. Pepper asked incredulously. "You'll have zucchini runners all over the floor!" Does anyone see a problem with that?

An old Easter basket holds zinnias at my front door. When Rachel and I bought this old kitchen chair at a local found-items shop, the saleswoman told us "Now, remember, this chair isn't for sitting!" I didn't tell the zinnias.  

Scarlet trumpet vine berries burst into coral bells, its tendrils digging into the mortar of our brick house, every year, performing a Wallenda-esque feat of balance and courage. One of my poems about despair and hope and beauty-in-the-moment was inspired by the massive trumpet vine shadowing a gray stone Mary who sits in a little garden just off of our deck. "Trumpet Vine" found a lovely home in the Anthology of Appalachian Writers. Here's a few lines:

 

                                   I carry water in a plastic blue pitcher to the potted plants,

                                   whispering in cool aqua tones, their flowering days numbered.

                                   Delicate buttons of lantana wave as I work near Mary,

                                   branches jousting playfully with the wind.

                                   Hard purple berries erupt into tiny pink and yellow circles,

                                   running round and round, spinning to a sunny center.

                                   I shield my eyes from the sight, pinching dead blossoms

                                   between my fingernails. Tiny jade hummingbirds hover,

                                   wings whirling furiously in direct defiance of gravity,
                                   hanging on a puff of blue air, chancing all to dip beaks

                                   into lavender cups, wings wet and heavy with hope.

 



 

 

Yeah, mama said there'd be days like that, my mama said. She also taught me the comfort to be found in a cold glass of sweet tea, which is in itself a beautiful thing.

 

To brew my version of Mama's Sweet Tea, here's what you'll need:

 

 8 Luzianne Tea Bags, tags removed

2 gallons hot water

2 cups (Okay, okay...but this is sweet tea!) Splenda

Steep until dark red.

 

Serve in tall glasses with crushed ice and lots of lemon slices. If you've had a gray kind of day, the kind your mama warned you about, you might want to add a splash of Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka. Take your glass out to your deck or your porch or your front stoop. Maybe you'll see the first of summer's lightning bugs. Remember what my cardinal told me: "There's beauty all around you."