Of Creeks and Trails and Stick Sabers

I planted some annuals in a pot a couple of weeks ago. Yes, just one pot. I planted a few in another pot the day before with my 5-year-old grandson's help. 

I like doing projects with Jackson, recognizing that in the blink of an eye, he'll be busy with his own life, and have less time to spend with his granny.

I don't especially enjoy gardening. I do like to look out the window at colorful flowers in pots on the deck, so I perform this chore every year in the spring.

I wish I was better at it. The little cuttings never seem quite balanced in the pot.  They're too close together, or too far apart. They're too deeply buried in the soil, barely visible over the rim of the pot, or not deeply enough, their spidery bare roots exposed.

I don't care enough to hone my gardening skills, so I simply plop the cuttings in as best I can, give them a good soaking, then leave future tending to Jerry, my husband. He'll keep them watered until the rains come in late fall.

A friend and I spent a couple of nights out of town in March. Since we were staying in a rental condo with a full kitchen, Joanne suggested we eat in for dinner each night. I knew this meant sharing cooking duty.

"Joanne," I said, hesitating, "you know I don't cook." I had no intention of lifting my fifteen-plus year moratorium on oven pre-heating.

Jerry, the guy who waters the plants I plant, also cooks our meals. He even cleans up after himself. Yes, I know how lucky I am.

Of course, I have cooked - in my former life. When I was married the first time, our roles were more traditional. I cooked and cared for our young daughter while holding down a full-time job with a 40-minute commute. But I was much younger then.

I continued to cook for Kristen and myself after the divorce. Most meals consisted of some baked meat – chicken parts or pork chops – often sprinkled with Italian seasoning for flair, a canned or frozen vegetable – usually green beans or spinach, and steamed white rice.

I wish I was better at it. I don't care enough to improve my culinary skills, so I manage to find ways around it. Like marrying a man who likes to cook. To be honest, though, that was a bonus skill. I'd have married him even if he couldn't pre-heat an oven.

The day after our conversation about cooking dinner during our condo stay, the inevitable guilt set in. I called Joanne and told her I would be willing to cook dinner one night. I hoped I could throw together something edible that didn't involve slicing or chopping or mixing or sautéing.

The meal consisted of bagged greens salad, accented with chopped onions and sliced tomatoes, topped with bottled dressing (as expected, I was unable to avoid all chopping and slicing), steamed white rice, and baked chicken, complemented with a select can of Campbell's Mushroom Soup poured over it. Except for Joanne's praise for my effort, I got no real pleasure from the task. It's not something I intend to repeat anytime soon, if ever.

Before our planting project, Jackson, his mom, and I hiked along a muddy trail beside a creek in the Bishop Ranch Regional Open Space behind our house. We traipsed down the path, leaping over the creek, zigzagging our way down until we reached a chain link fence and the end of our hike. 

Jackson found a good stick early on that he carried with him, tapping it against trees, dragging it along the damp soil, and waving it like a saber at make-believe foes. I snapped pictures of him as he climbed, jumped, and waded along the trail.

I'm not good at wilderness activities. I prefer fresh sheets to sleeping bags, a heated pool to a lake, paved sidewalks to muddy trails. 

I wish I was better at it. And for Jackson's sake, I will strive to improve my creek leaping and trail zigzagging skills, and continue to accompany him and his mom on these adventures as long as he'll let me tag along.

I will stage future gardening events and other outdoor activities, for I know my time with him will be gone with the swish of an imaginary saber, and I don't want to squander a single minute.

I just pray he doesn't develop an interest in cooking.