The Zen of Lawn Mowing

I hate mowing my lawn. And I love it too. It is the classic conflict of the ages, dressed in modern technology and fueled by neighborhood ordinances which, regardless of how I might feel, state that the lawn must be kept mowed.

Let me first explain that the object of my love/hate relationship is not a riding lawnmower, which 95% of my neighbors use (those who don’t subscribe to a lawn service, that is). It is instead a self-propelled walk-behind type, bought 15 years ago when the house was first built and, despite a few quirks, still runs great. Unable to justify replacing something that isn’t broken, I have instead forced myself into ever greater familiarity with my mechanical beastie, growing my contempt for it as I walk behind it and listen to it growling purposefully away.

Still I have to give my nemesis credit. It does make me get out and get some exercise (it takes me an hour to mow our yard), uses less fuel than those owned by our neighbors, and is cheaper than a membership to a health club. That is part of the basis for my love of it I suppose. I seem to need such motivation to exercise any more, and the knowledge that I’m not only friendlier to my environment but pinching pennies while I’m improving my health does seem to assuage my feelings of resentment.

But the main component of the love part in my relationship with lawn mowing is the meditative trance that takes hold as I’m fulfilling my neighborly obligations. Under the hypnotic white-noise of the engine, I become unusually attuned not only to my surroundings but the marvelous way my mind works, and for awhile, I can revel in and listen to my brain’s complexity as it multitasks on several levels. “10 more passes to finish this section.” (Wonder if my son will remember to meet me in front of the office today?) “The turn at this point is getting too sharp; time to change up the pattern.” (I can really spice up my story if I take this avenue). “Need to attend to that Creeping Charlie again.” (Should start seeing this year’s fawns soon). “Watch it – there’s a toad trying to get outta the way!”

Yet, despite all that, I still hate lawn mowing. I hate feeling like I’m getting cooked to the core by the sun (and yes, I do stick to mowing as early in the day as those darn ordinances will permit). I hate the gritty, sweaty, bile-filled creature I inevitably turn into afterwards when I’ve completed my chore (thank goodness for long cool showers). Most of all I hate the demands mowing makes on my time. The pressure that builds and builds inside me when more than a week has gone by since the last mowing is absolutely inescapable, however, and, worse, a killer of my creative juices. If I wish to make progress on my writing projects, I have no recourse but to get up and attend to the matter. Otherwise, my muse is forever held hostage.

But to learn more about one’s own inner workings… Well, I have to admit, that is priceless in its way. Too, to have lawn mowing help me straighten out a story line, or to even provide me a story to write – which, as this entry proves, it has – is a reward that even a crotchety skeptic like me has to acknowledge.

Still, it isn’t enough to cure me of my hate of this ordinary, physically taxing task, which means that the love/hate relationship will always be there, I’m afraid. But at least it is tempered by the knowledge of all that I gain - that is, until either those pesky ordinances change, or I break down and persuade my husband to invest in a riding lawn mower.

The Case of the Missing Amati, Part II - A Sherlock Holmes Pastiche

Upon our return, Escott was scanning the capital of the column next to the vacant table. Holmes shutdown his computer as we approached; his self-satisfied demeanor and shining eyes told all.


“Tell me, Signora DiRiso,” he said, “were the people who refurbished the fireplace known to you?”

DiRiso’s jaw dropped. “How did…That wasn’t …?”

“It is elementary, Signora. The fireplace glistens from its cleaning; there is not so much a trace of dust evident to the eye. When one considers the unmarred sheen of the marble floor before it, denoting an unusual lack of traffic, the conclusion is obvious.”

The director swallowed. “The …company is our usual one. The workers were new to me.”

"Are there other cleanings scheduled by the same?"

"Items in the Hall of the Halberdiers are scheduled for cleaning next week."

A smile spread across Holmes’ face. “Signora DiRiso, might I trouble you for a ladder?’’

Two minutes later, a ladder was leaning against the column Holmes had been scanning. Escott easily scaled to its top, then, reaching through the column’s elaborate capital and into the abacus and arch, his hand disappeared, only to return clutching a two-foot-long swaddled bundle.

“Signora DiRiso,” Escott announced, “allow me to present the missing Amati.”

Amazement and joy swallowed any words Caprice DiRiso may have had.

"The problem was simplistic, though not without merit,” Holmes said, upon his return to the ground. “It was evident from their reports that the Polizia De Cremona had, understandably, assumed the Amati violin was no longer in the museum. I, however, chose to first test veracity of that premise. Using my thermal imager, I examined any place in which the missing instrument could be sequestered. My computer’s sophistication soon detected the holographic transducer disguising the hole in the column’s capital, this despite the false readings it transmits. I also determined that a foreign, violin-sized object lay within the architrave.

"It is an age-old ploy being adroitly reused: hide a coveted object in the very area meant to safe-guard it until both the furor dies and the authorities' attention is diverted. The article is then retrieved in relative safety. In this instance, the scheme has been successfully foiled. It remains but to catch the perpetrators.

"And that should not be difficult to do, though it will mean postponing the announcement of the violin’s recovery. As the cleaners are the likely culprits, the polizia need but wait for their return and their inevitable attempt to recover the Amati. It is a task for which police are imminently well-suited, though Watson and I can be on hand to superintend, should you desire.

"What remains, then, is the issue of how the villains were able to undermine your security system." Holmes' face hardened as he reached into his coat pocket. He withdrew a tiny opalescent disk which he offered to Caprice DiRiso. "Since your security system operates in the Lexitant Technology environment, I'd suggest having your network administrator apply this patch. You should not experience any more breaches. Contact me upon your next OS upgrade."

Though left unsaid, the hint of anger in Holmes' eyes told all: Sylvia Moriarty, CEO of Lexitant Technologies, had once again made use of the backdoor she had planted in her universally used operating system.

"Staordinario," DiRiso breathed as she accepted the disk, still cradling the violin. "I cannot think of words sufficient to thank you, Signore. How can I ever repay you?"

A twinkle entered Holmes' eye; a smile touched his lips. "Being a violinist myself, I would find it extremely gratifying to try my skill on such an exquisite instrument."

DiRiso did not hesitate; she instantly strode to an antique secretary. A touch of a button revealed a selection of bows, pads, and rosin.

"Enjoy," she said, extending the violin towards him. And, for a full half-hour, Escott Sherlock Holmes played as I have never heard him play, his face serene as the music of Bach ... or was it Kreisler?... echoed through the marbled corridors of the museum.

[end]

Today Is NOT a Good Day to Write

It truly isn't.  I look out the window at the louring clouds assaulting my senses for the second day in a row and feel my spirit dive.  Reading up on how to write the perfect query letter <*shudder*> for the novel I'm currently polishing certainly didn't help.  And actually working on that novel?  Pfffft.  Forget-about-it.  My muse is gone, or at least too stagnant for even that endeavor.

Yet, look at what I've just accomplished here.  No, it is not very long, nor is it very compelling.  Still, I have written something, and it is something coherent.  And just because I've accomplished those usually minor feats, I am going to go ahead and publish this entry.

Perhaps a long walk will help to clear the remaining cobwebs - all those endorphins you know.  Maybe afterwards, working on my manuscript, or even a <*shudder*> query letter won't seem all that bad to me.  Or at least, not so very daunting.

Getting Older

I remember an essay my son wrote for a school writing contest not that long ago. The theme for the contest was “Aging,” something that impacts all our lives in one way or another. My son’s essay ended, according to memory, with the conclusion that getting old was a state of mind, and if one thought young thoughts, one would remain young of heart.

There is truth to that belief, but I am beginning to learn that keeping a young mindset is much harder than it sounds. Inevitably, life events occur that grapple with and sometimes hogtie one’s forever-young attitude, things like a friend’s death; the loss of the family pet; the growing geriatric problems that plague aging parents. And when signs of aging start showing up within your own body – arthritis developing in the knuckle of your index finger, for instance – well, while that may not totally slow you down, that minor discomfort can make you think twice about doing things.

Still, I think it’s important to strive to keep that eternally youthful outlook, not only for yourself, but for those who love and live with you. Looking for that silver lining, trying something new, taking care of the body you’ve been given – these actions can add up to an important legacy that you can leave to comfort children and friends once the inevitable occurs. And if I can both better my remaining years by working to stay young of heart, as well as better the lives of those I love by doing so, isn’t that something that, when it comes down to it, is ultimately one of the most important things I can do?

So live young. Remember that age is just a number. And don’t forget not only to stop and smell the roses, but to share all those glorious roses with your friends and family as well.

The Case of the Missing Amati, Part I - A Sherlock Holmes Pastiche

A word of explanation before the story begins.  This early work of mine is a pastiche that was written for a group of very active Sherlockians known as the "Norwegian Explorers."  The group liked it so well that they elected to publish it in their 2004 Christmas Annual.  And now for the story...

The Missing Amati


“Signore Holmes and Dr. Watson: thank-you for coming at such short notice.”

It was mid-November, in the year 2052, and I was still shaking off the chill I’d acquired when we leapt from our transport and scurried beneath the gothic arches of the Palazzo Comunale. The call from Cremona, Italy, had come in not two hours prior; Escott Sherlock Holmes and I, Dr. James Watson, had, of course, immediately responded.

It was the Museum Director, Caprice DiRiso, who greeted us. A sophisticated, middle-age brunette, her wrinkled brow and somber eyes betrayed her worry despite her cool voice.

“I understand the Polizia De Cremona are even now hunting down today’s visitors,” Holmes replied. “Considering the befuddlement in the reports I downloaded, the Cremonese Council was right in calling me in.”

“Escott maintains a variety of connections,” I hastily added, as the director raised a questioning eyebrow. And being an unofficial member of British Intelligence helps as well, I thought.

“I see,” DiRiso replied in frost-bitten tones. “Signore Holmes, the Council chose to contact you because they realize the Andrea Amati violin was not stolen for money; it cannot be sold, for any appraiser or auction house would instantly recognize it. That can only mean that it is destined for some private collection, in which case it would be lost to humanity for time untold. The violin must be recovered, gentlemen. Everything else is secondary.”

“Perhaps, Signora, if you could recount events from the beginning?” Holmes asked.

“Of course, Signore. We can talk as we make our way through the museum.

“As you may know, what is now called the Salon of Violins is a room that was once a chapel, a sacred room to house the sacred legacy of Cremona, one might say. A preeminent collection of instruments is preserved within the Salon; over the last 100 years, the Cremonese Council has spent vast amounts of time, money, and effort to bring home the finest works of the Cremonese violin masters: Stradivari, Guarneri, and, of course, Amati, the founding father of violin making.

“To keep these wonderful instruments in peak condition, they are played every day according to a strict schedule. Because some instruments are more popular with our visitors than others, we took into account the museum’s peak visiting hours when creating our schedule. Thus, our Stradavari instruments are played during the more populous times. Though more precious than the Stradavari, the Andrea Amati violin is the last instrument played on any given day.

“Today, as our docent was bringing in some guests to experience the sonorous qualities of our Amati, he was astounded to see that the violin was not in its place, this despite our state-of-the-art security system. As our violinist had not yet entered the Salon, the docent quickly concluded that the violin had been taken. Fearing something amiss with our security system, I had the museum immediately closed and the polizia notified.”

Our walk had taken us past the Hall of Paintings and an ornate, antique fireplace, the mantel of which gleamed in the light. We now stood just inside the Salon of Violins. The high ceiling chamber, and the soaring arches and marble columns were all that remained from its chapel days. Arrayed along each side of the center aisle were several small tables, all but one with some stringed instrument serenely floating above it. That one stood near a column located at the far end of the room.

Holmes’s gaze flashed about the chamber; appreciation flickered in his grey eyes. “Signora DiRiso, you have done a magnificent job preserving the Salon’s ambience, while managing to install superlative security and environmental systems: top-of-the-line sensors to maintain the humidity and temperature; anti-gravitational tables to allow unobstructed viewing of the instruments; leading-edge force shields to keep curious or scheming hands away; and finally, random, scatter-beam infrared lasers to secure the windows. Truly a well thought-out arrangement.”

As he spoke, Holmes pulled his palm-sized, British Intelligence issued computer from his coat pocket, along with one of many peripheral devices he habitually carried. Securing the earpiece, he activated the instrument via thumbprint recognition; with a command, a faint blue light flashed to life upon the marble floor near the empty table.

A scornful frown tugged at Caprice DiRiso’s lips. “I thought you had already reviewed the police reports,” she said.

“I have,” Holmes replied his eyes fixed on his computer. “And now, dear lady, allow me to conduct my own examination.”

The stare from the director at this brusqueness echoed my own mental cringe, though our college years had well acquainted me with Escott’s idiosyncrasies. A touch on my arm indicated that DiRiso wished to speak with me away from Escott as he worked. Together we walked towards the Salon’s entrance as Holmes’s scanner edged towards the base of the nearest column.

“Dr. Watson,” DiRiso said softly. “I wish to convey that I was strongly against the Council bringing you and Signore Holmes into this matter. I do hope he is every bit the ‘Sherlock Holmes’ he is purported to be.”

“You will not find anyone more so,” I replied, thus carefully couching a truth known only by a few. For 85% of Escott’s DNA had come from a hair sample left by the Victorian Sherlock. That now two-year-old revelation had precipitated Escott assuming the Holmes name – and the huge mantle of his legacy.

[end part I]

Joe

Yesterday, I received an email telling me that a neighbor boy from my childhood had died unexpectedly. Shocking news to receive on a glorious, sunny Sunday. He was only a few years older than me.

The email came from his younger sister, who I had played with often in those early years. Joe was a teenager then, busy doing teenage things, which made him more of just a lanky presence in my youth. Still, there is much I remember about Joe, like the fact that he had his own paper route which made him the envy of all the kids on our block. I recall too that he even let me help fold the papers once, which was exciting in a Tom Sawyer-esque way. And that mini-bike – Joe along with his brothers would often tool up and down the street on it, running imaginary races with the wind. I never got to ride on the bike, by the way. Neither did his sister, if memory serves me right.

More sadly, I also recall hearing through the familial grapevine that Joe had developed a horrible addiction to one of those awful street-market drugs in his later years. So compulsive did this habit become, that Joe’s parents scraped together the money needed to send him to an exclusive clinic in Hawaii for help. I never heard if he ever truly conquered this problem.

But, in a way, that doesn’t matter. In my mind, Joe will always be that lanky teenager peddling his bike, bags stuffed with papers swinging from his handlebars. Don’t forget our house too, Joe. Nice toss.