Detachment

June 10, 2025 — Pat Bertram

As you can probably tell from my lack of posts for the past couple of months, I’m losing my emotional involvement with my yard. Usually spring offers plenty of gardening photo opportunities, but lately I tend to just look and pass on by rather than document the beauties I see. Oh, I’m still doing the yard work, still waiting to see what blooms, still taking some pictures, but I’m doing so at a degree or two of separation. I’m not exactly sure why I started losing my enthusiasm. Perhaps because of the difficulty of keeping things green and blooming in this dry and sometimes harsh environment. Perhaps of a general feeling of detachment from life and a sense of the passing years. Perhaps because of . . . who knows.

Oddly, even though it hasn’t been that hot compared to previous springs — we’re just now getting up into the 90s — and even though I’ve been keeping up with the watering, the sun is so intense that the grass is already burning and flowering plants are wilting. I feel as if I should care, but I don’t, not really. Or maybe it’s that I don’t want to care. It does take a lot out of a person to plant flowers and greenery and tend them only to watch them struggle.

In a way, it’s not that big of a deal. I can replant grass and flowers and other vegetation. Or I can plant something else in the place of plants that don’t make it. For example, I had one large swath of grass left from the original sod I’d put in, but half of it died over the winter. (Which is odd in itself since all the rest died in the summer heat.) I couldn’t decide whether to replant the grass come fall or plant something else. In the end, I planted wildflowers instead of leaving the dead grass, and if I decide I want the grass, well, autumn (the best time to plant grass around here) is still a long way away. For another example, half of my ice plant that has spread so rapidly over the years also died in the winter, but I was able to replant.

So, not a big deal, but still . . .

I make it sound as if my garden is failing, but the truth is, it was prettier this spring than ever before.

Plenty of flowers planted themselves, such as the red poppies, and the larkspur. Other plants spread nicely. And some not so nicely. (I try to stay away from flowers that take over, but that’s not always easy to control since what should grow here doesn’t always and what shouldn’t sometimes does.)

This is always a rather unpretty time of year, which adds to my disinterest. The summer flowers haven’t yet budded. The larkspur is finished flowering but hasn’t yet gone to seed, so it makes the garden look rather drab. Once the larkspur and other self-planted annuals are finished, I can then replant so that August and September will be nice, but now it’s just a matter of keeping the yard — and me — going.

It’s funny — I waited all winter for this and now?

I’ve been sitting here thinking, wondering about that “and now?” and I have no response to that.

I have a hunch that once we settle into summer, I’ll be okay. Hot, but okay. There’s been just way too many weather changes lately to suit my poor aging mind and body — cloudiness and humidity and sprinkles of rain followed rapidly by sun and heat and then a repeat of the cycle.

At least I will have plenty of work to do outside to keep me occupied. In fact, I better close this off and go mow the grass.

Wishing you well.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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To Dig and To Dream

August 7, 2023 — Pat Bertram

It seems odd to me that for so many years I blogged every day, and yet now I barely make it once a month. I suppose that’s a good thing — it means I’m not conflicted or obsessing or outraged about anything. What unpleasantries that assail me are noted and forgotten as much as possible. Mosquito bites, obviously, are not forgotten because that dang itch is always there as a reminder, but even that, for the most part, I’m able to note and then let go.

It’s good not to have something on my mind that I need to write about to clear my head, but on the other hand, nothing to blog about means nothing noteworthy is happening. Just life as it comes.

It’s been hot, of course, but while other places have been dealing with record-breaking heat, we’ve been five to ten degrees cooler than normal. No major forays into the 100-degree range, luckily, though high nineties is plenty hot enough. In fact, what grass was left is slowly succumbing to the unrelenting heat. I certainly never expected for the grass to continue to die — not only has it been a bit cooler than last year, we’ve been getting twice as much rain as normal.

That’s just life as it comes, I guess.

My gardening stint each morning is spent digging up the old grass in preparation for planting seed next month. This seed is supposed to be extreme heat tolerant, and it might be so. The patch I planted last fall has survived so far, and looks good. The patch I planted in the spring never did well — weeds grew faster than whatever seeds were left after the birds feasted, and now the devil grass is taking over.

Sometimes I wonder why I’m doing all this work. It seems silly to be spending so much time on the yard, and silliest to be digging up a lawn that was sodded only a couple of years ago, but if the grass can’t survive, it’s no good to me. I considered other options for a ground cover, but what it comes down to is a proper grass for the area is still the best bet. Seed is relatively cheap, can be walked on without damage, and once established needs no more work than the rest of the yard. (Surprisingly, the supposedly care-free ornamental rock and gravel areas are the hardest to take care of — there is always tree detritus clogging the rocks such as leaves and seeds and tiny twigs that can’t be cleaned off with a leaf blower. Even worse, with all the rain we’ve been having, weeds grow rampantly among the rocks and in the pathways.)

There will come a time when I can’t do the work I am doing in now. In fact, I’m surprised I can work as hard as I do — just a couple of years ago, it took me forever to get things done because my knees weren’t cooperating. So, silly or not, I’m grateful to be able to do anything physical. Besides, working in the yard gives me something different to focus on. And — sometimes — it seems worth it. So many of my flowers had been decimated by the hailstorms we had as well as by grasshopper hordes, but the annuals seem to be recuperating, the perennials are hanging in there, and the lilac bushes are doing well.

Because of my concentration on the grass, other parts of the yard might have to wait until next year to be taken care of, but who knows. I do manage to sneak in other chores between the digging. One thing I discovered quite by accident is that any part of the ice plant can be planted. (I’d picked a flower to show a neighbor, and then stuck it back in the ground to see what would happen, and it grew!) So any of plant that gets pulled up as I weed gets pushed back into the ground. Because of this, and some transplanting, I’m able to get the ice plant to spread out even more.

Someday, perhaps, I will have a gorgeous yard that’s easy to take care of, but for now, it’s enough just to dig and to dream.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Spring of Excess

May 31, 2023 — Pat Bertram

This spring seems a season of excess. There are way too many bad air days due to wildfire smoke migrating down from Canada, and there is an invasion of miller months because they aren’t migrating. (They are being slowed down by the smoke.) There are hundreds of the moths in my yard, dozens in my garage and basement, but luckily only a few in the house itself. I try to tolerate them because they are pollinators (and because they are pollinators, they are a protected species in Colorado), but I can’t find it in myself to like them, especially not in such vast numbers. Not only do they spook me when they come flying at me out of nowhere, but they are such messy critters, leaving their effluvia on windows, curtains, and anywhere else they happen to land.

There is also an excess of mosquitoes. To me, even a single mosquito is too much, but this year there are clouds of them. Normally, I am fairly safe in the heat of the early afternoon, since they are most active in the early morning and evening, but a short foray outside a couple of days ago netted me over a dozen bites. Luckily, my gardening clothes are mosquito-repellent, so as long as I am careful to wear those clothes when I am outside, I am fine.

I’m not sure why this year is different, but there is an excess of stuff (for lack of a better word) falling from trees. I do know the neighbor’s locust trees are raining flowers (miniscule greenish things that don’t resemble flowers at all), but I don’t know what the slim green things from my other neighbor’s tree are. Perhaps seeds. I don’t remember seeing them before, but this morning they are everywhere. Where’s a good wind when you need it? Oops. I shouldn’t say that — we’ve had way too much wind this spring (my hanging plants spend more time on the ground, safe from the winds, than they do hanging), so a calm morning is welcome.

We’ve had a lot of rain this spring, not an excess, exactly, but enough to make flowers and weeds grow profusely. I would have thought that I’d be appreciative of the floral largess, but to be honest, I find it a bit overwhelming. The larkspur, which is usually about knee-high, is almost as tall as I am. It’s growing thickly, especially where the grass died, making it impossible for me to access the garden bed and the plants that are buried in the larkspur forest.

I am the only one who is less than impressed with the growth. Butterflies love it.

Bees love it.

And visitors are awed. But not me. Oh, I do appreciate the beauty, but I find it unsettling. It’s . . . too much.

It’s not just the larkspur that grew more than expected. The lilac bushes doubled in size, and seeds are wildly sprouting. Normally, I have little luck with seeds, so I tend to plant more than is called for in the hope that some will take hold. Well, the zinnia seeds I planted must have had an extraordinary germination rate or they like the weather or something, because almost all of them managed to sprout. So I’ve been thinning the zinnia bed and transplanting the seedlings elsewhere in my yard; although I’ve moved half the seedlings, the bed is still too thickly planted. I have never had such a problem before, but then, I’ve never lived through a season such as this one, either.

On an amusing note, this fecundity has created an almost magical soil. I wanted to see if my neighbor wanted any of my ice plant.

I pinched off a flower to show her. Afterward, instead of tossing the sample away, I stuck in in the ground, and it’s growing. For all I know, if things continue the way they are, the plant could take over the yard.

It won’t be long before summer is here, forcing all my plants and flowers — and me! — to struggle with heat and aridity, but for now, I’m continuing to be overwhelmed by this spring of excess.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Today’s Treasure

May 15, 2022 — Pat Bertram

The first California poppy of the season!

One poppy does not make a poppy field, but it’s a start, right? I never particularly liked these small poppies, having grown up with the large red floppy-petaled poppies, but after my visit several years ago to the Antelope Valley Poppy Preserve, I developed a fondness for the smaller flower. In massive numbers, they look like a sunset fallen to earth, and oh, it sure was something to see.

I won’t be able to duplicate those fields of color, of course, but since the plants seem to do well here (and no wonder, the two climates — the high prairie of Colorado and the high desert of California — are similar) I should be able to create small patches of a blooming sunset.

But that’s for the future. Today is about enjoying the first poppy of the season as well as the first dwarf snapdragon, another of the seeds in the wildflower mix I planted last December. When they say dwarf, they mean it. These flowers are tiny — no bigger than a bee (hence the rather blurry photo). If they weren’t part of the mixture, I wouldn’t have been interested in planting such small flowers. They don’t really add much color to the yard, but since they are an annual, it doesn’t really matter. I’ll enjoy them this year, assuming, of course, I can see them.

The first bellflowers, another flower from the wildflower mix, have also bloomed. Not as big as a poppy. Not as small as a dwarf snapdragon. But so pretty. Maybe I could do a whole patch of these, too.

This ice plant wasn’t part of the wildflower mix; it was something I bought last year just because I liked the name. (Supposedly, it’s called an ice plant because it shimmers like ice.)

As if being able to see all these flowers poke their pretty faces up to the sun isn’t treat enough, today a friend stopped by to take a tour of my yard. I enjoyed showing the things I have done, the things my contractor did, and the things nature did. Somehow, it all works together to make something special. She’s been watching my garden take hold over the years, so it was fun seeing it through her eyes.

The yard was especially pretty today. I’d mowed this morning, so the lawn was nicely manicured, and the larkspur were at their peak. It won’t be long before the larkspur grows too tall and top heavy, so it would behoove me to get garden stakes if I don’t want a leaning garden. (That happened last year. The winds caused the plants to grow slantwise.)

So, those are the treasures of this day. I can hardly wait to see what treasures tomorrow will bring.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.

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Lost in Time

September 27, 2021 — Pat Bertram

“Describe one thing you did today. And tell us why you think we should know about it.”

I don’t know where I got that suggestion from — to describe one thing and explain why people should know about. If I had to guess, I’d say I probably got the idea from a book I read, jotted it down, and promptly forgot it. Today, I was trolling around in my notes to find a blog topic, and there it was.

I suppose I never followed through on this suggestion for a blog topic because I always follow through. Wow, that’s confusing! I mean I never specifically set out to follow through and describe one thing I did in response to this particular suggestion. Despite that, it does seem to be the current theme of this blog: to find one thing out of an otherwise eventless day to remark upon. I’m not sure if anyone but me needs to know about anything that happens in my life, but I do think it’s important for me to make note of at least one event or sight or thought every day, otherwise the days tend to pass unnoticed and unwitnessed. And I don’t want to be one of those people who, at the end of their life, look around and wonder where it all went. I’m sure I’ll do that anyway, because it does seem to be something we all think about as the number of our days shrink.

Still, here I am scrambling around in my mind trying to think of one particular thing I did today that I — or anyone — should know about.

I read, I dug, I watered my plants, I took a photo of my ice plant (although it’s pink, supposedly it’s called an ice plant because it shimmers as if icy), and because this is forecast to be the last searingly hot day of the year, I made a point to enjoy the heat.

The most noteworthy thing about the day, though, was how lost in time I felt. I had to keep checking my phone to see what day it was. (Checking a calendar doesn’t help, because if you don’t know what day it is, you won’t be able to tell what day it is.) Not that the day of the week mattered except to make sure it isn’t a work day, but for some reason, the whole concept of time and days of the week confused me today.

I’m sure the confusion is more of a reaction to three days off with no one to talk to rather than age-related discombobulation. (Surely, I talked to someone during these days, but except for a few brief words with a neighbor, I don’t think I did. Weird.) It will be interesting for me to see my reaction to time when my job comes to an end, especially if I immerse myself in writing another book. Then I really will have to make note of something each day to separate one day from another.

But that’s in the future. Today is . . . today. Monday. And despite the periodic confusion about time, it was a good day. And that’s important to know.

What about you? What did you do today, and why should we know about it?

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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