Gardeners Beware!

If you think this is going to be a warning about Fire Ants, guess again.

Does the following scenario sound familiar?

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning and you go outside early to cut some flowers before it gets too hot. While out, you see the dahlias need staking. You quickly bring in the flowers and return with stakes and string. The seemingly random flight of a butterfly searching for the perfect zinnia to land upon catches your eye and while turning, notice the basil is becoming unruly. While trimming, the scent of basil releases to fill the air. The aroma makes you decide on tomato pie for dinner. Uh oh, weeds are overtaking your Better Boys. Taking the crabgrass to the compost bin, you see it needs turning and retrieve your pitchfork. When returning it to the shed, or your garage, you notice limbs and twigs rained down upon the lawn along with last night's storm. Some sticks/branches are large enough to impede the lawnmower’s progress. You must collect them in your wheelbarrow to deposit into the “brush pile” for burning later. What then? You pass the wildflower garden where briers are taller than the Holly Hock, and Carolina creeper moved from creeping to leaping. Next thing you know, hours have passed, and you are heavily into the heat of the afternoon sun.

Does this sound like you? Perhaps the names (of the plants) have changed, but the gist is there. No matter how small your plot, you can get lost in your garden. Now for the important question:

When you went outside in the early morning hours for that quick trip to retrieve flowers for the table, did you first apply a high SPF sunscreen and wait 20 minutes for it to sink in before going outside? If not, did you apply any when you grabbed a bottle of water when finding the stakes and string or reapply when grabbing the pitchfork? If you said yes, then BRAVO to you. No need to read further. But if you are like me, and all you put on were your clothes and garden shoes, please continue because-

I have cancer. Skin cancer. Basal Cell Carcinoma. Diagnosed last week. Not melanoma, so the first thought is one of relief. Relief? What an odd feeling with a cancer diagnosis-to be relieved. It’s only Basal Cell Carcinoma-BCC. Friends react to the news, “Thank goodness it's just Basal Cell Cancer.” I agree. Yet “Only” or “Just” in the same sentence with cancer seems like it would be an oxymoron of some type-Only…Cancer. But the … in between makes all the difference.

I asked my dermatologist to look at this irregularly shaped red spot about an inch inside my hairline I noticed two weeks earlier. I thought it looked suspicious, but tried to convince myself as much as I am in the garden, it was probably a bug bite and would go away. I pushed away the thought that bug bites are usually round. But if it had been growing there for awhile, surely I would have noticed it earlier, right?

I really, really wanted it to be a bug bite.

She took one look at it and said, “Hmm, it does look a little Basal-y to me.” Basal-y. Sounds so innocent. Cute almost. Like my favorite herb basil. “Oh, that pesto was so good, very Basil-y.” I love basil. I grow lots of basil. I make so much basil pesto I freeze it in the summertime so we can have chicken tortellini with basil pesto mid-winter. Maybe I ate too much basil.

If it had been melanoma, would she have said, “It looks a little Melanoma-y?” Doubt it. So yes, I am extremely grateful and relieved I only have BCC.

She referred me to a Dermatological Surgeon for Mohs Surgery. They will shave the area and remove a layer of my skin around the now biopsied site, place it under the microscope and see if they have clear margins. If not, they go back in and cut a deeper, wider chunk and repeat the process until the margins are clear. Apparently basal-y cancer can be very small on the surface, but can spread underneath like an upside down mushroom. Once clear, they suture it back together. But any mom knows when your child tears a hole out of their jeans, it isn't easy to sew it back without the edges rippling, so how is that supposed to work? I am glad it is in my hairline. Could I admit to moving up from relieved and grateful to now glad and happy, in fact, that it isn't right out in the open on my face?

When my surgeon’s office called to schedule the surgery, I asked if the path report came back with any more information, like is it staged? She replied that they don’t stage BCC, but there are types. She offered this statement: “If you have to have basal cell, it is the best kind to have.” My admitted happiness is now escalating to elation! I have the good kind!  But then later the statement eked into the party I was having in my head. If I have to have…?  I pondered, “But why do I have to have..?”

I’ll tell you why. I answered my own query, “Because of all my sun exposure, that’s why.” I should be surprised if I didn’t get it. Growing up in San Diego, much of my youth was (mis)spent getting sunburns at the beach. Back then we called it suntan lotion. As a teen you didn't want any screening, you wanted that deep Coppertone tan. So much of the damage was already done. But it didn't help to continue my inattention to UV rays.

My husband had the same type cancer about two years ago, and had the same surgery I am about to undergo. After a long day in the garden, he would top it off by getting in the pool to cool off and float in a ring with the afternoon sun for company, sans sunscreen.

So, gardeners, please take heed! Wear that goofy looking hat and apply sunscreen! Consider this a reminder, a (lengthy) public service announcement. Apply sunscreen, even on overcast days when you are just going to run out and pick flowers. Don’t get lost in the garden without it. Otherwise, as John Madden used to say about a missed extra point in football, “It can come back to haunt you.” And I wager you don’t want to see an apparition while they are carving a hole in your head…

What Have You Done?

Oh, my deer, what have you done?

I have never considered myself the “earthy-crunchy” type, but I do admit to being a true nature lover. I still stop and pause to watch a couple of squirrels frolicking about high up in the trees.  I have nicknamed one GEICO that seems to want to run me off the road and into my own mailbox at least three out of five days of the week by darting out in front of me when I come home from work. Yes, I am sure it is always the same one, but I refuse to elaborate. Hint: There’s this wacky glint in his eye…

Every spring I delight in seeing, for quite a few years now, hawks building their nest high up in our trees.  Spying on the babies with binoculars later, sometimes difficult once the trees have filled out, somehow thrills me. My husband as well, the TC in TLC Floral, will proclaim when they have grown big enough to see their little heads popping out over the nest.  When in the garden, if I don’t hear the parents squawking , I am occasionally alerted to their presence instead by seeing a huge shadow cast upon the grass moving across the yard like a fast forward segment in a movie depicting a story line time lapse.  A few times when I have been very still planting or pulling weeds between rows, one has landed within feet of me, and am amazed how large they are from up close, and wish I had my camera. Such a regal looking bird.

Then there are the other birds, the bunnies, raccoon, occasional fox, multitude of turtles, frogs, lizards, and yes-my encounters with snakes, I've had a few- and OH, the butterflies and dragonflies…and I realize how lucky I am to live where I do. I have to thank my TC for that.

Notice I did not mention DEER! I used to include deer in my running list of Elly May Clampett animal loves. I took pictures when they strolled into our little plot of land. If I would spot them from our sun room, I would distract our dogs to the living room so they wouldn’t bark and scare them away. I would stealthily go outside to see how close I could get without them startling and bolting back into the woods.

BUT, this year, they are dead to me! They have been taking way more than their fair share of what little grew in my yucky muck. (See “Muck Gardening” Post for more details.) “Come on!” I want to yell to the woods, “Even my second planting of tomato plants?” I guess that’s an old wive’s tale that they are poisonous because I have no dead deer lying around the neighborhood. And they are eating EVERYTHING! Flowers and veggies alike, including pears off the tree I had been looking forward to for months! I don’t mind sharing, but this is complete obliteration!

I admit I am not completely selfless in allowing caterpillars to have the majority of my parsley since I do so for my enjoyment of the butterflies. Growing organically, I do expect nature to get a cut.  The deer; however, are treating my garden like their personal smorgasbord. Though I am not an eyewitness to the events, I know I can’t blame rabbits, because they can’t strip green bean leaves to the height of five feet, even up on their little furry-cushioned Thumper back feet on a stretch. Not to mention, unlike Dexter, they don’t cover their (devilishly cloven hoof) tracks. 

So, to my two dogs I say-get ready for a good grooming my pups because out comes the dog hair for your scent to scare them off. Best of all, I am cooking up some good old homemade hot pepper spray to apply to (what little is left of) the plants so their buffet table will be a little too spicy tasting for them.  You’re in for a surprise, my deer. Take that, you Hosta thieves. That’ll teach you.

Finding Pure Joy in a Tomato Patch

The following post is in honor of my husband’s birthday today. The man who has since helped me find pure joy outside of the Tomato Patch.

 Finding Pure Joy in a Tomato Patch

I met my husband on a psych ward. Did that get your attention? It usually does. At parties, when asked the standard question, “Where did you two first meet?”, our answer is usually met with a quizzical look, and cocking of heads to bring an ear closer, hopefully to hear details of  some juicy story involving a psychopath and a manic depressive making a love connection in the middle of a group session.

OK, I won’t keep you in suspense. Sorry to disappoint. My husband was a Recreational Therapist on staff in the Psychiatric Dept of a large hospital, and I was doing my psychiatric internship in Occupational Therapy. At least that’s our story and we are sticking to it.

But it's not as if I couldn't have used some therapy myself. I believe most of us could use a little “talk therapy” at some point in our lives. I loved my Psych affiliation. People with issues are usually drawn to the field, from my experience.

I have always been a Type A+ nervous person by nature-and nurture. My family stock is bubbling over with highly seasoned bundles of nerves. So most all milestones in my life-occasions that should be filled with pure joy have included, at the very least, butterflies in my stomach.

Graduating, I feared I may trip. My wedding day, ditto. The birth of my son, having him prematurely, turned what should be a purely joyous moment, to one fraught with fear for his well being.  So you can see the pattern here. They say some ridiculously high percentage of what you worry about never comes to pass. So I feel it’s important to worry about everything, to reduce my chances of anything bad happening by gaining a statistical advantage. My mother always said, “The things that end up getting you are the unexpected. The ones that blindside you.” So like a boy scout, I was always prepared.

In the early evening before my last day on the psych unit, my husband-to-be called my dorm and asked me out for pizza. I was beyond thrilled, as I loved working with him. He was smart with a dry sense of humor and quick wit, and his piercing blue eyes didn't hurt.  All the women patients would show up for early morning exercise class when he was leading it, whispering how he looked just like Magnum PI.

So he picked me up and we went to a local pizza joint. Midway through a shared pitcher of warm beer and overly greasy pizza, he said he just thought someone should take me out before I left. That immediately dropped any “date” pressure.  But I didn't care if it was just a goodbye pity pizza, I loved being with him. No need for nerves, as there were no expectations.  I did not want to leave the restaurant, even when their a/c stopped working- not good for midsummer in the South.

Across the street from the stuffy restaurant, there was a little pop up parking lot amusement park. You know the kind. I never trust them for safety. Not completely tightening a few bolts here or there, and you could fly off and plummet to your most certain death landing on a car hood. But when he asked if I wanted to go, of course I said yes! I didn’t want the night to end. I was ready to risk life and limb for this man and head to the Ferris wheel.  Luckily I survived to tell this story.

 He was off the next day, my last day at the hospital. A part of me was hoping he would show up, ask me not to leave. As I packed my belongings right after work and drove back to my family’s home for my second internship a state away, I was saddened with the thought I would never see him again.

My second fieldwork was in my local hospital, and I hated it from the first day.  So, after day four, I went out to the garden to de-stress with the mind numbing action of pulling weeds and the satisfaction of picking red ripe tomatoes. The garden always takes me away like a Calgon commercial.  (Most may be too young to know that reference.)

 As I sat in the tomato patch, I was feeling better after just a few minutes, when my mother came out with mail in her hand asking if I knew a “Tracy Cleghorn”. There you have it: Finding pure joy in a tomato patch. I quickly got up stumbling out through the maze of tomato cages like I just sat in a Fire Ant nest. Pure unadulterated feelings of joy emanated from somewhere deep inside where no butterflies had room to flitter about.  No nerves accompanying my elation like a side dish.

We didn’t have texting and email back in the Stone Age.  It was a four page handwritten letter filled with funny anecdotal stories that made me laugh throughout. Maybe that is why a once gardening hobby turned into my passion. And that’s how, decades later, TLC Floral was born. Out of a tomato patch.