Confused rare bird
(My sister has a confused rooster who tries to mate with cats but has never caught it on video.)

Transforming owl

I love owls, but on the ground and burrowing?

Why does my husband never dance with me like this?

Aren’t you glad our native birds don’t imitate car alarms?

Yes we are all ducks

A certain type of chicken

Still not a cat video but getting closer

Obligatory cat video (with bird)

A few daffodils are up and they always remind me of my mother. She loved all the daffydowndillies and jonquils. Neither of us ever really learned if all daffodils are jonquils or if it’s the other way around. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the joyous color of butter shining above the crusty brown crumbs of winter. I have well over 100 daffodil bulbs in my yard and each one was planted with just a little bit of Daddy’s ashes. So now these flowers remind me of him, as well. And of Mom and Dad together playing cards or telling each other their dreams from the night before.

The first flower I was ever allowed to pick was the grape hyacinth. I never found them as attractive as other spring flowers, but being allowed to pick a bouquet is a big deal when you’re only four years old. My Meme let me do that. And the flowers lasted, unlike my bouquets of dandelions.

Dandelions count as flowers in my book or blog post. Finding my first bloom meant that I could go outside barefoot. I even liked their sticky, nasty-tasting sap. I didn’t know of any other plant that could leave you with a yellow chin and brown fingers after picking and smelling it. And what fun their seed heads are when you’re a kid watching them fly away from the force of your breath. I love seeing a roadside reflecting the sunshine with all those yellow heads. I do pull up every one I find in my garden, however. I mean I’m not crazy.

Pansies remind my of Meme. I do not know why. I think there’s some story about her planting some along a garage at the schoolhouse. The schoolhouse does not refer to an actual school building. It’s what my family calls the house they lived in before I came along and which was removed in order to build the new high school (built before I was born, but still referred to as new.) Something happened during the planting–or maybe it was painting–and the something was memorable for my mother. All I remember is she told me a story that involved a garage, pansies and my grandmother. She enjoyed the story and I liked seeing that. Also pansies have fat little faces, just like my Meme.

The irises I plant to remind me of my father. I remember going to a farm when I was young specifically to select and buy a few new rhizomes. We bought one called Babbling Brook, which is blue with ruffled edges along the falls. It went into one of the three rows of iris we had inside the circle of our driveway. There were also ones that smelled like root beer. In high school I wrote a poem in praise of the Celestial Snow iris Daddy planted the year before. He planted and fertilized the plants, but it was always Mom who weeded them. So they also remind me of her.

Louie and Lulu Leisure were not relatives but they lived down the street. They had a huge bleeding heart somewhere near their house and so I think of Louie when mine are in bloom. I marvel at how he was able to yell at me and the neighbor kids when we ran through his backyard, “Don’t drown in the pond.” I believed there was a pond behind his barn or outbuilding or garage. I have a much stronger memory of the fictitious pond than I do of his outbuilding. And Lulu once had a dark purple iris in a vase sitting on a table covered with a white tablecloth. I think she or Mom picked off a faded bloom and it oozed a deep purple liquid which stained her cloth. So sometimes iris also remind me of Lulu. Which is good because, really, I don’t remember either of their faces.

Mayapples remind me of my sister, but not because she cultivated them. I simply recall her advice that morrells were often found near them. That is a very important bit of information to have.

At some point I was told about a May Day tradition of giving bouquets anonymously.  So one year I took a construction paper basket I’d made, filled it with violets, and headed down the street in my raincoat and galoshes. I stopped at the end of the street at the house of a lady who let me play with kittens in her yard once or something delightful like that. I didn’t know her name, but I wanted to give her my flowers. So I hung the flowers on her doorknob, rang her doorbell and ran and hide in full sight behind some structure in her yard. She came to the door, yelled at me, then found the flowers and tried to coax me out of hiding. Eventually she gave up and I went home confused. But I still loved violets and planned on having my wedding bouquet made out of nothing else but violets. That didn’t happen, but I still think it would be very attractive. Especially with the freckled variety I grow now.

One last, lowly, flowering plant: white clover. It’s not much of a flower, but it also makes me think of my sister. She taught me how to make them into a chain. And we had a perfect patch of clover near the barn when we were young. You could be sure of finding a four-leaf clover in that patch. And Beverly once found one with five (5!) leaves. I wanted it badly. She didn’t give it to me, but I was very impressed nevertheless. Clover should be respected and planted more often. When I seeded my lawn many years ago, I used half clover seed so I’d have a soft mat to walk across in my bare feet. It grows low to the ground and means you don’t have to mow as often. And you get bees visiting which are always good luck even if you’re stupid enough to step on one like I do most years.

I hope there will be those who remember me when they see a checkered lily, dried globe thistle, thyme in bloom, or smell cinnamon basil. Or any plant, really. Just try not to think of me when you’re trying to dig for the hidden roots and rhizomes of the creeping bellflower.

When HabMoo returned to Kuwait and had been there a couple of days, we had a really interesting conversation. it wasn’t about how much we missed each other; it was about how we understood how couples could so easily cheat on each other during a deployment. Not that either of us was truly tempted, but the loss of the person you love feels a little like a breakup. It feels like you’re trying to move on even if what you’re really trying to do is hang on. To make the pain less, we could see how you’d turn to someone else. It might make things easier for a while.

I’ve written about pining for my husband earlier during the deployment. These last weeks before he returns are not about pining. They are about reminding myself that he’s still my husband and not some guy I wish was my husband. It’s about aching for the sound of his breath in the middle of the night. It’s about wishing I could listen to him talk to me about whatever is on his mind as he’s flossing his teeth. It’s lamenting the fact that he’s not here to make me healing spaghetti when I’m sick. It’s feeling shackled to Skype each morning, even when it fails us.

The last months are the hardest. I don’t have any prior posts from this time. I think it’s because the feelings are too raw and I hate to expose all that. Plus I don’t want him to feel guilty or worried. We are just living with decisions we made. It’s sort of like a natural disaster that we knew was coming and prepared for. We built in the tornado belt because we loved it there. Round about now, it’s hard to see the beauty, is all.

I’d like to say that I want him focused on his job and not me because his job is important and critical to success. But the war is over, they’ve worked w/o a few basic work tools for several days, and no one seems involved in any activities that actually matter to the US or even to them or other soldiers. I don’t understand why he’s still there except that there was a plan and no one wants to work too hard to change the plan or the dates. If I felt like we were making a sacrifice that mattered, I think this waiting would be easier. I could label my pain as patriotic or heroic or something. Instead it just seems like a waste.

Have you ever taken the 5 Love Languages assessment? We both rank very highly for the language of touch. I wish it was words of affirmation instead. I think we’re both pretty good at that. We let each other know that the other is loved. We laugh and tease during our Skype calls when we aren’t cursing Internet connectivity. But we both need to be touched. I need a hug. I need a peck on the neck while I wash dishes. Not to mention that husband/wife touchy stuff. No amount of Skype or phone calls, no sonnets, no letters, no gifts make up for the casual unconscious touch of his hand on my leg while we watch a movie.

While I don’t have prior posts to review and see how this frustration and sadness has happened before, I do have a few posts from when he’s been home. And they barely even mention him. When he gets back he’ll be such a constant, such a fixture, that I won’t have to write about his presence. It will just be assumed. That’s what I really want. I want to be so quenched by his local existence, his perfect attendance, that I’m excited about having a weekend alone while he’s at drill. That is such a great feeling.

Mom kept a journal for many years and we all liked it that she did so. Sometimes she’d have to stay up later than she wanted so she could record whatever the TV weatherman said the high for the day was. She also recorded things like the number of pints or quarters she put up. Or if Dad bought a new pony at an auction or if she bought a new coat. Her entries are really pretty boring to read, but I treasure the couple of books I have. I’ll try to make this at least as interesting.

I do not wait well. I really hate those minutes before people show up to a party I host and I loath the hours I spend waiting to find out exactly when my soldier will be available for pick up. The only things you ever know for sure is that the time you’re given initially is just a shot in the dark. I was smart this time and went to the gym to work out. I had to carry my phone with me, but I had something to do with my nervous energy and if I broke anything it wasn’t something of mine. I got HabMoo’s phone call from Atlanta telling me his flight number and time while I was working on the ab machine.

I tried very hard not to be too early to the airport. I only had to wait five minutes or so. I imagined seeing him come down the stairs. Instead I saw him walk down the corridor and gave a little shout. It wasn’t too loud, but I’m sure people heard it. A small public display of affection followed.

I drove home. I never drive when he’s home unless I have to. But since he hasn’t driven above 10 MPH in the last six months and was sleep deprived, I took the wheel.

I had left the Xmas tree up, but had taken down some of the decorations thinking that we might want to decorate the tree together to make it feel like Xmas instead of January. That never happened, but we did take the tree down together which counts for something. It’s not festive, but it is a domestic chore which can be sort of bonding if you haven’t done one together for a while. We always give each other gifts at home, but this year we took them to his folks so there’d be more presents. That was a good plan. But we never got our traditional Xmas photo to post on Facebook. It seems like Facebook didn’t even notice.

I have a hard time with disruptions to my routine. That’s hard for me to believe that to be true. It makes me feel old and intractable, but it’s true. The second and third days of having HabMoo around talking to me outside the daily morning Skype visit got on my nerves a bit. I went to the gym one day so I did that little bit of routine and it helped. I have to remember that I need to do that when he comes home in spring.

HabMoo pointed out a few other aspects of my habits I’d rather not notice. Yes, I had left a bowl of oil and vinegar out for over a month. Yes, I live like a stereotypical bachelor when he’s not home. But I do change my underwear everyday and I brush my teeth so I’m not completely a lost soul. I might eat a bell pepper like an apple for lunch, but so what? I mostly remembered to close the bathroom door while he was home.

I got special dispensation to attend the annual “mancation” so that I’d let him attend. It’s an all-male party at a cabin in Wisconsin and involves secret stuff I’m not allowed to talk about. That’s their official poster for this year’s event on the right. Mostly it’s loud, involves a lot of food and booze, and allowed me to play some of my favorite board games. I also took a few walks out on the frozen lake and looked at bald eagle and Canadian goose tracks.

At home, we played a lot of board games, painted board game miniatures, shopped for board game related paraphernalia, and talked about board games. We ate at Chipotle, Five Guys, and Origami. We also renewed our driver’s licenses, cancelled out each other’s votes in a local election, and packed up books and other stuff to get out of the house before we put it up for sale. Pretty basic vacation stuff?

We also watched a few movies. I had never seen Indiana Jones so we watched that. I should have seen it when it came out instead of waiting I guess. I wasn’t impressed. We also watched Conquest of the Planet of the Apes. I love it that HabMoo loves the Planet of the Apes franchise as much as I do. On his last night at home I suggested a romantic movie and he said, “What? Like Romeo + Juliet?” And I realized here’s where our age difference really comes into play. He likes the 1996 version with Leonardo diCaprio and I like the Franco Zeffirelli 1968 version. So we watched Mystery Science Theater’s Catalina Capers instead.

The last day of his stay was made more complicated by the failure of an alarm and the snowy road conditions. But that stress was better than last time when I waited at the gate with him for his plane to leave. Worst idea ever. It was much better to kiss and run just outside the airport.

Temperatures during his visit were unseasonably warm and he didn’t get a chance to use the snow shoes I gave him for Xmas.