James M. Redwine

Spring

Blame Lucy

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Louis and Mary Leakey discovered some early human ancestors in Tanzania, Africa’s Olduvai Gorge in 1959. Donald Johanson discovered who may be our original grandmother in Ethiopia’s Great Rift Valley in 1974. He named her Lucy because he was a Beatles fan and listened to the song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” right after his discovery. It may be uncharitable to Johanson and paleontology to point out many believe the song was a paean to LSD. On the other hand, those who question Lucy’s bona fides may find solace in this theory.

At the opposite end of those Doubting Thomas’ is the atheistic biologist Richard Dawkins from the University of Oxford who pushed human origins back to as much as five million years ago and posited his meme theory. Dawkins suggests that it is our replicating genes that determine who and what we are and why we behave as we do. One of his famous analogies to explain the evolution of human biology and behavior is to suggest we envision a long line of mothers holding hands all the way back to Lucy. And, as for me, my experiences with my mother and my wife, Peg, convince me there is some credence to the science of the Leakeys, Johanson and Dawkins.

Let’s envision Lucy, our grandmother, in her African cave while our mythical grandfather, call him Adam, goes out to hunt a mastodon for dinner. Adam is struggling with how to trick the massive beast to stampede over a cliff, but Lucy is back home planning for Adam’s return. After Lucy rearranges the lodge pole front door for the tenth time, she surveys the cave’s interior. She is dissatisfied with the position of the bearskin rug she had Adam move just yesterday. She makes a mental note to have Adam shake out the bearskin and figure out a way to attach it to the granite wall of the cave.

Next, Lucy inventories the two stone cooking utensils that Adam carved out for her last week and decides she must have another small one for their new baby’s meals. Lucy switches the positions of the two vessels for the third time. They look better to her now. Lucy gives the baby a bath in the stream running in front of their cave and realizes with only a few days of work with his stone hoe Adam could divert water right to their cave. Lucy resolves to mention her idea to Adam over a handful of fermenting blackberries when he returns.

Meanwhile Adam is full of a sense of accomplishment because he has skinned the mastodon and is hauling the hide, one ivory tusk and a huge chunk of meat back for Lucy to admire. Adam assumes his work is done for a week or two because Lucy will need to tan the hide, process the meat and make sewing needles from the tusk as she cooks dinner and nurses the baby.

Gentle Reader, you may wonder, or you may not care, why we are discussing the lives of Lucy, Adam and baby from thousands of years ago. Well, I will tell you. About three years ago Peg and I moved into our cabin on the prairie. By unspoken agreement Peg took over all space but my barn. This worked out fine until over the two years of COVID Peg had time to organize every inch of her Girl Cave, the Bunkhouse, the Cabin and even the neutral territory of our garage. Last week spring truly arrived and Peg turned her gaze on my barn. It has not been pretty.

As long as she did not have to look at my laissez-faire system of “if it ain’t in my way, why worry about it”, well, she didn’t worry herself with it. But once she opened the overhead doors and found the mother lode of “my stuff”, she focused her female/Lucy type DNA upon my space. It reminded me of when my sainted mother would venture into my room on a Saturday morning and turn it upside down. Peg and Mom and Lucy and all wives and mothers in between have spent about two million years of two X chromosomal fixation with organization of sons’ and husbands’ behavior. I guess my three-year barn reprieve is over.

Happy Birthday, Peg!

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Happy Birthday, Peg! Photo by Jim Redwine

We are almost one full month into spring, the season of renewal for some wives and ennui for their husbands. There is something about damp earth that calls out to such wives as Peg much as the Sirens called out to the crew of Ulysses. Though it would not be politically correct, the Devil is pushing me to try to lash Peg to the steering wheel of her Mini Cooper so she cannot frequent every garden center within twenty-five miles of our cabin.

Peg must have beaucoup amounts of potting soil, countless plants and varieties of seeds, containers of metal, clay and plastic and every conceivable fertilizer and pesticide that is touted by Peg’s countless Facebook friends as the newest miracle agents to produce award winning vegetables and flowers. Of course, beds must be prepared and organized by color, variety, time of planting and varmint prevention. Do you need to ask, Gentle Reader, whom Peg has in mind for these tasks?

I am not a Nancy Reagan type of astrology buff but I do wonder if Peg’s birthday that falls during the first half of April may have influenced her pathological need to commune with the earth. I offer the following horoscope (taken from the internet) as evidence to support my position: under the sign of Aries the first half of April, “Is an amazing time to chase your most precious goals.” I should also include the astrological caution that April will be, “a month of ups and downs”; that will certainly be true for me as I follow Peg’s orders.

I am aware that one must not fall into the Cassandra dilemma of ignoring the claimed wisdom of the stars. You may recall that Cassandra had been both blessed and cursed by the gods. She had the gift of prophecy but no one would believe her so disaster still occurred, including the fall of Troy in Homer’s The Illiad. Therefore, I will keep in mind the prediction in Peg’s horoscope that April will be a great time for her to reach her spring goals of recreating the Gardens of Babylon on the rocky, arid soil of JPeg Osage Ranch. However, I see nothing in any bird entrails or other devices of divination that calls for me to be involved.

The problem is, just as Cassandra, I may be correct but Peg refuses to recognize it. Her position is that my lot is cast as her garden Sherpa and I had better get off the couch. The only saving grace that I see is that both football and basketball seasons are over, the World Series is months from now and the Cardinals probably won’t be involved anyway. And, by the time you read this article, the 2022 Masters Golf Tournament will be history. Perhaps the better part of valor is for me to just accept my fate and conceal my amusement when the deer eat the tops off of everything Peg has planted but the marigolds.

Happy Birthday, Peg!

Mucho Mulch

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Ah, spring! The hummingbirds have returned to JPeg Ranch and the falling locust tree blossoms can make me forget for a while how the thorns attack me each time I must deal with a fallen branch. The air is filled with perfume and a symphony of avian love songs.

Of course, it is not called spring for nothing and the Equinox strikes deeply into Peg’s cortex causing her to spring into a frenzy of projects around the Ranch. Unfortunately for me Peg’s projects become my sentence.

Then there is Peg’s deeply held belief we should contribute to virtually every cause that advances the beauty of Posey County, especially New Harmony. The confluence of her obsessions of yard improvement and public service converged when our friend Barb McConnell, who is a hardworking member of the New Harmony Garden Club, mentioned to Peg that the club was selling bags of mulch as a fundraiser.

Now, New Harmony is our home and we care about it. My affection for our small village is best expressed by patronizing Sara and David Brown’s Coffee and Wine Shop, David and Vicki Campbell and Sara and David Brown’s microbrewery, Kenny and Nancy Weinzapfel’s Yellow Tavern and the Owen family’s Red Geranium Restaurant. My position is I spend money on a good meal and/or a good glass of red wine, then I have well met my duty to improve our community. With Peg that’s not quite enough. Therefore, Peg bought 120 (you did not misread that figure) of brown mulch from Barb and the Garden Club.

When Peg gave me the good news my first thought was, “Okay, you bought the mulch, you must want to lift, move, open and spread every last 50 pound bag of it.” Gee, how could I have ever had such a fleeting dream? Oh, no, Peg demanded that I have the pleasure of spending an entire weekend frolicking in the yard with enough mulch to recreate the Old Plank Road between New Harmony and Mt. Vernon.

We put mulch on every possible tree, shrub, flower bed and mole hole within sight. The left over was used to get ready for our grandson’s wedding to be held at the Ranch this month. I bit my tongue when the thought arose, “Does the happy couple really want to stand on a 3 foot high pile of mulch to take their vows?”

A Wee Mousie’s Revenge

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I can’t relate in a family newspaper my very first thought as I slipped on that icy stoop at JPeg Ranch and crashed precipitously into the large stone behind it. As I felt my left kidney complain about the cruel blow, my mind was in the pure reaction mode. Contemplation of the irony involved arose only after I realized I was not dead. Peg later said I must have actually landed on my head as there appeared to be no lasting damage.

But as the Good Book says, “In the beginning …” Last Friday morning’s near rendezvous with mortality began about 5:00 a.m. when I was shaving and heard Peg shriek, “Jim, get down here!” As I had experienced that tone for years I went ahead shaving thinking she probably had some task in mind for me that might be able to be avoided if I feigned deafness.

Peg stormed into the bathroom with the same attitude I remembered my drill sergeant had in basic training. “There’s a mouse in the sticky trap behind the commode in the laundry room!” I figured this was not going away but held out a glimmer of hope the mouse may have managed to escape and, therefore, so could I. I made no reply.

“You (why me?) need to get that thing out of here right now! And take it out to the burn pile. Do not even try to just throw it in the trash until the trash men come next week.” She is always at least one bad decision ahead of me.

Gentle Reader, you may recall that last Friday we still had the frozen remnants of ice and sleet from Mother Nature’s assault. Most of it was melted but some had re-frozen. Unfortunately for me the clear, invisible ice still covered the path out to the burn pile and most importantly the deck and steps leading to the path. Hold that thought.

Resigning myself to my spousal fate I checked behind the commode and found one fairly normal sized mouse looking at me with what appeared to be a respectful appeal for clemency. I picked up the trap and mouse with my left hand and headed out the three-season porch to the deck. Everything looked okay to me so I stepped down off the deck onto the large white stone step which also looked clear. Well, it was clear, clear ice.

Faster than the falling stock market I ended up crashing on my left kidney into the stoop and wishing I’d pass out. I didn’t. I first processed the similarity between the excruciating pain I was currently feeling and the only slightly more exhilarating level brought on when I broke my leg skiing. Once I finished cursing the darkness I began to contemplate why I had not just released the mouse and let it slip on the ice. Instead the mouse pulled away from the now crumpled trap and as I helplessly watched it looked back over its shoulder with an expression that appeared to me both sardonic and sarcastic. It did not hang around to offer aid or comfort.

After about ten minutes of writhing on the ice-covered ground and trying to figure out how I could parlay the situation into some advantage against Peg, I struggled my way back into the house seeking sympathy. Peg said, “I do not see any blood and, more importantly, where’s the mouse?” That was when the poem by Robert Burns, Ode to a Wee Mousie, came to mind. “The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray”, or in my case, Peg’s best laid plans for me.

Oh by the way, not only was Peg about as sympathetic as a traffic cop in Alabama when you have an Indiana license tag, but when I went to see Dr. Lee he took one brief but professional look and said, “You are not dying, it’s only an ugly bruise. But if you want me to, I’ll call Peg and tell her you cannot do any chores until Spring.” Unfortunately, he was only kidding.

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