Two Tricky Chairs

 By Maryanna Gabriel


Where there is life, there is hope. The squash starts are in a jury-rigged plant hospital in makeshift pots on the deck. Not much left really, but there is still a hint of green. Interviews with fellow gardeners indicate the slug invasion is pervasive. So, it isn't just me. The eggshells, the diatomaceous earth, even plastic domes have proven to be useless fail-stops. But this post is not about the perils of planting. It is about two chairs. And the two chairs I sold yesterday made me think of a painting my mother did. Where that painting is now is beyond me. 

When I sold two chairs yesterday, I was unprepared for the emotional wallop. They were good chairs, still with labels, and well constructed. The handy practical sort and camping type. Nice ochre colour. They were bought for a vision, a dream, that I would enjoy riverside reveries with someone I love dearly. But that dream, that vision, never came to pass. That someone failed to show. So the chairs were folded and put away. Life went on. 

The thing is, I didn't understand the chairs, the inanimate objects, were the keepers of residual grief. Of course they should go to someone to enjoy. So I was unsuspecting as I took the money. When the wallop came I was unprepared. Grief threatened to swallow me whole.

At first, I didn't get it. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. It took some time but I traced what was coming up to the chairs and hence the memory. Who knew chairs could be so tricky?

The upshot is, that like squash plants, there is still hope. And so it goes. Sometimes we just have to cling to the dear life that is left.

Attack Of The Killer Slugs

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


Somehow, not sure how I got here, I have found myself relaxing. I've heard this happens on holidays and it is unclear how it has crept on me. Maybe it is the rain. Except for the killer slugs.

Very sly slugs they are.

Very sly slugs they are. All over everything, even plants I thought were fine. Turns out they camouflage into a pale colour so they blend into the green. These are so small they are hard to see. The eye is trained for the black ones, you see, who are larger and have been in steady migration from a ditch outside the garden beyond the gate.

Fie upon ye. 

I had a feeling... I went out armed with crushed eggshells in search of the one precious red strawberry I

Eggshells as weaponry.

had recently espied. I was just in time. Saved the strawberry, you will be happy to know, and surrounded the others with crushed shell and bits of straw, the thesis being, this hurts their little slimy selves and so move on. 

Saving the crop.

The truth is, it is the moving on part that is the worry, and when I saw the troop on the march from the garden gate, I upped my ante. Armed with plastic containers from the bin, I made little green houses over the more precious plants.

Then that night a wind blew. Gone was a delphinium. A rare squash. And the potato plants were covered with their puffy black bodies. So Hitchcock.

May showers have killed the April flowers. Goodness knows, I am all in a tizzy. It is slug patrol for me morning and night. 

The Crow Who Could Not Fly

 By Maryanna Gabriel


While Mr. Glinty Eyes flies off and bugs someone else down the road, a friend wrote when she saw my post.

She had a crow story. This crow came to her and her partner when he was injured and unable to fly. He was being heckled by starlings who proceeded to dive bomb the poor thing. Without intervention, it was clear the crow would die. They hoped to nurse him back to health so they decided to rescue him. They built a container for him and named him Chuckie. 

Chuckette, the pet crow. 

My friend who wishes to remain anonymous writes:

...tried to teach him to fly but he was happy walking around in the cage. We went to the zoo which had a crow habitat to learn how to make a house. Chuckie loved Maude [the dog] and would nestle up to her from inside the cage and groom her. He ended up being a she, when she laid five eggs of the most gorgeous blue colour. My neighbors son, who was 5 at the time, took them for show and tell. 

I think that she felt safe in her cage from the outer world. When I would take her out to try to teach her how to fly on the grass, I would use Woody the parrot’s first big bird cage to transport her.
She was very nervous. Unfortunately,no flight, only a dive bomb on the grass. That’s when I put the long boards at different levels in huge 10 x 10 x 5 cage with a top. She would only hop from the different levels and eventually just enjoyed strutting around. 

Crows and Ravens nest so high in the trees that it is rare to see their eggs. Crows and Ravens have a language as you may already know with their caws. Sometimes they will mimic our words. However “Chuckette” never did but she would whinny exactly like the horses. From your garbage experience, you can guess that crows and ravens are omnivores. So twice a day, I fed her a mixture of food. Sadly after she laid her eggs, she wasn’t as strong but also after Maude passed, she wasn’t happy and passed.

I hope and think that it was a good life for her.

Crow eggs.

Conversation With Mr. Glinty Eyes

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


The raven before me was huge. Garbage was strewn everywhere. He had poked gaping holes into the bag. He regarded me calmly. 

    "Caw," I said in guttural tones. My exasperation apparently carried conviction. He lifted into the air and landed a foot away from his previous stance. Good. My attempt at inter-species communication had impact. His stare was bold. Glinting. 

    Damn it. "Caw, caw!" I flapped my arms for emphasis. For a brief moment I fancied he would fly into my face but he if so, he reconsidered, and with an effortless lift regarded me from the safety of the other side of the road. 

    Rural collection has been erratic, and I am still trying to understand how it works. I would have to invest in a protective bin. Clearly. 

    Ravens are supposed to be mystical creatures. That's the theory, anyway. Once, in Byron Bay, Australia, I had a tarot reading and a raven had tapped on the window as the reader interpreted the cards. She was so absorbed in what she was saying she barely noticed. For me, however, it gave credence about a family member. The reading was life changing. The tapping seemed to give emphasis from somewhere beyond. Or someone. 

    However, there was nothing mystical about this saucy fellow. But now it would seem I can keep my caws to myself for the day is saved. I found what I needed on sale. Even more importantly, unlike the mountains where I lived last spring, there are no bears. An unmystical raven after garbage is much more managable. All is well, after all.