Spring in the Mind

Spring time is about bird migration, Stripped Bass migration, going to nurseries, digging in the warming soil and turning over the compost piles, visiting stone suppliers and boat yards, sorting through fishing gear, drawing up designs and blueprints, list making plants needed, getting out seeds ordered over the winter to envision a new companion plan along with making sure tools are sharp and guys in my work crews have everything they need to proceed forward with our next project.

Above was what Spring meant when I resided in The Hamptons, NY. Things, and other stuff I have yet to be aware of?, have changed.

Dirty hoe deeds (an honoring of ace gardener actress Susie Almgren) were embedded while growing up in super fertile Napa Valley, California. Ponds, fountains, stone walls, faked ruinscapes, arbors, outdoor furnishings, pots, urns, sculptures, hidden outdoor secret spaces, rock walls, rock walkways, wild garden vistas, and the entire patio-living lifestyle Sunset Magazine is famous for is fashioned from the love of gardening.

Macomber women, lifelong subscribers to Sunset Mag, are mega on gardens, angling, boating, sailing, art projects, museums, birds, nature, books, travel, cultures, and eating the bounty of an organic orchard and veggie garden sitting at a beautifully set table with elegance and ambiance. I make a joke when new folks come for dinner and they are taken aback by the table I set for our meal, “Ya don’t escape Napa Valley without knowing how to turn napkins into swans and food into eatble art.” I do not know any better.

A number of the revolutionaries (from various cultures) I know, or have been grateful to become tight with over the decades, grow gardens even if they can only tend an array of pots brimming with herbs arranged on a covered balcony. A few of these eco-warriors are art collectors (me too) yet we all trip over books stacked hither and thither in slightly to grossly unorganized living spaces. Our interiors are well conceived in form, space, and lighting. If properly attended to these interiors would give Architecture Digest (AD) a run for its over the top imagery – albeit, if AD bothered with the small footprints of living a grand artsy life in a little boho home.

In the past, I visited abodes of hell bent Marxists who equate art and beauty with injustice and greed. Their spaces are bleak to boring. For them bad taste is aesthetically pleasing taste. I dunno. This attitude I do not get and wonder what happened in their kid years to turn making art from collected seashells and pieces of flotsam found strolling along a tide line – unacceptable. 

Today, i admitted to a loving female friend I envision the next sequence of my life. I try out various places and people in my mind’s eye reviewing the detailing and overall vibe of possible scenarios. I suppose this is why I was pissed off when I had to put away my toy ranch with its horses, fences, and such and stomp into being an older kid who no longer played with childish toys. As a child with my mini-ranches in the dirt under the peach tree I fashioned worlds, internally wrote and said dialogues and acted out through my toys too many versions of similar story lines. Happiness flew by as hours disappeared. Play never left me.

My mother did not allow toy guns, BB guns, or sling shots. My brother’s ceiling in his room was hung with plane, rocket, and ship models he put together. Bro Dan moved on to HO trains – empire building he called it. He stills has trains.

The ceiling in my room was painted (by me) to resemble ivy and trumpet vines twined inside a white painted pergola. The real one of these was stationed outside the inside dining room. As I and my drawing painting skills aged I added imagery – squirrels and raccoons peaking through leaves, a resting swarm of honey bees, birds of many kinds plus moths, dragon and damsel flies, and butterflies galore. By the time graduated I from Napa High School a rainbow soared from the ceiling pergola across another wall ending over my Victoriana iron bedstead (found in a ditch on Mt. Veeder road, abandoned).

It was not easy to leave behind my personal private fantasy world encased on the ceiling at Beckworth Lane, or whinny snorting under the trees in the garden. Who the hell wants to leave freedom hobbled to happiness behind?

I remember I asked my landlady if i could paint my bedroom in the small house I shared while going to college. When she came to see my paint job she was aghast not expecting a panorama of Bali/New Guinea birds on one wall morphing onto a ceiling of cloud formations spilling onto another wall of faux painted views of Tuscany. 

I am fast no matter what I do. The number one lesson I have yet to learn living in Costa Rica is not one damn thing happens here in the time frame I want. I have zero patience. So snotty, I refuse to wait longer than ten minutes for the other party to an appointment even if they are POTUS. I never stand in any line herded like sheep or set up like a row of inanimate dullards waiting to be told what to do, next. In Costa Rica, if you need the govt. or national banks you stand in line and wait, and wait, and wait. I find this entire stupidity suppression of the people.

Today, American kids sit in their car seats watching cartoon movies while driven to the next event be it soccer, ballet, a sleep-over, the scouts, school, church, the park, the club, baseball, and so forth. My grand nephew Jack Davis S. carries his legos and lego made units with him, in all situations. I wish I could have carried my horse ranch with me on long or short drives, when i was little. Maybe, I should procure a new set and carry same with me the next time I have to wait for the Costa Rica govt. to take care of something in less than three minutes yet requires three hours of standing in line.


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