A couple of newspaper articles caught my eye this week. One featured our neighbor, Billy; the other was about a group of women who are learning to read.
Oak Island doesn’t have any covenanted areas, except maybe Kings Lynn at the far west end. Our street subscribes to the anything-goes school of design, from cinderblock to modular to stick-built on slabs, crawlspaces and pilings. Down the street from us is a cinderblock model surrounded by a chain-link fence with various vehicles in various stages of repair in the yard. We call it “The Compound,” and Billy lives there. He’s a neighborhood character, famous for scavenging anything usable from curb-side deposits. Once Tim and I dug up three hopelessly scaled Burford hollies and tossed them on the lot next door, near the road: Billy salvaged them, and two still live in his yard. When the lady across the street moved, she put some wicker furniture on the curb free for the taking, as is the local custom. Later that day, Tim saw Billy on his moped, balancing the loveseat on his head with the cushions secured to his person.
Our neighbor Billy |
“[T]hat’s my goal [now], to help others,” he’s quoted as saying. “That’s what I want out of this. I’m 50 years old and riding a moped; I’m living with my parents. Thank God for my mama or I might be living under the bridge somewhere. Don’t be like me.” He goes on to give some excellent advice for all of us: “[T]ake the cotton out of your ears and stuff it in your mouth.”
Billy’s an old dog who’s learned a new trick. Way to go, Billy!
Miss Bobby rehearses with the Reader's Theatre (photo by Jeff Janowski) |
Miss Bobby’s an old dog who learned a new trick. Way to go, Miss Bobby!
One of Momma's quilt tops as completed by Betty's church group |
Three generations of reinventors, circa 1995: from left, me, sister Donna, Momma, niece Abbey, sister Karen, niece Beth |
(In case you’re wondering what the “ill” part is, my older sister reinvented herself homeless five or six years back. She’s better now.)
Old dogs, new tricks.
When we started in the business, neither Tim nor I had any formal horticulture credentials. (Thirteen years on, we still only have one, certification as North Carolina Professional Plantsmen.) He quit his job with the State Department, and I quit mine as a housewife, to run away to North Carolina from New York. (How we ended up on Oak Island is a lovely, romantic story. Details available upon request.)
The first time we went to a wholesale nursery to buy plants for a job, I broke down in the conifer section and started to cry. “They’ll know we’re not really landscapers,” I blubbered. Tim picked me up off the ground (I’d tripped over the cart hitch) and looked me in the eye. “We have cards that say we’re landscapers, so we’re landscapers. We can be anything we want to be. The only school that really matters in the end is the on-the-job one.”
That was the day this old dog learned a new trick. I’ve never looked back.
In the wild, humans don’t have much going for them. We’re weak, furless, clawless, poor diggers, sad swimmers, pitiful runners and worse climbers—not a great recipe for success in nature. But we are fantastic adaptors, and the ability to turn disadvantage into something we can use for our own ends is what we’re best at. Just look at any friggin’ politician.
I know, I know. Thanks for the sermon, Reverend Weird, you’re thinking. But what have dogs doing tricks got to do with gardening?
Miss Frizzle |
Consider joining old dogs Billy, Miss Bobby, my family and me: teach yourself a new trick. I can testify, it feels great.
Thanks for dropping by, you old dog, you.
Kathy
Scholastic's Magic School Bus gang |
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