The Devil in disguise...

I woke up during the night with a sore throat.  I know this sore throat, as I have had hundreds of them over my lifetime.  It is that precursor of a full blown upper respiratory infection - one that only occasionally can be quelled before making life not so pleasant for a number of weeks.

Yes, along with the absolute sheer beauty of the spring in Houston comes the absolute terror of oak, pecan, and flower pollens that wreak havoc on those of us whose immune systems go into overdrive.  Add to that the extra workload of said season in a garden environment, and voila!  People get sick.

At least this year, there were plenty of opportunities for me to drink in my fill of the loveliness before I succumbed to the unpleasantness.  These gardens are a place of solace, joy, amazement, triumph, comfort, peace, reflection, and discovery - and I'm ever grateful to have had them as my "backyard" for these nearly 6 years.

Mowing...

Ever since I was a young girl, this has been a forbidden task for me. Something about an allergy to "fresh-cut grass". At least that's the way it was initially diagnosed. What else would throw a young person into a full-blown asthma attack after having played around it in while raking and sweeping and inhaling that fine mixture of lawn mower exhaust, shredded St. Augustine grass and eau de dirt that surrounds the process. I am not talking about a meager attack of wheezing and discomfort. I'm talking about lips and fingernails turning blue, and family doctors saying "I'm going to give her this shot. It will make her heart race, but if it doesn't work, we'll have to get to the hospital." To this day, being around a yard being groomed makes me feel as though my throat is closing up, so, yes, I definitely avoid it.

The truth is, though, that I have loved having a yard - nearly all of my life, I have lived in a place that had one. Well, as of this week, I no longer own the property I live on, though I will need to keep the lawn mowed until I move out. I will not miss caring for the lawn. I will not miss cleaning up after limbs that fall from neighbor's trees, or the absolute mess left by an occasional hurricane. I will not miss that blankety-blank pyracantha bush by my front door - the one that would never die, no matter how closely one cut it to the ground. I will not miss dragging hoses and sprinklers around in the heat of Houston summers.

I will miss the gracious curvature of the crepe myrtle trees in the front, in which we strung many a Christmas light. I will miss the screen of nandina bushes that kept our little front patio private. I will miss landscaping in the back yard and along side the house - the hibiscus, the tung tree, the shrimp plant, the faux gardenia tree, the hummingbird bush, the variegated ginger, and the potato vine - all very lovingly planted by my wondrous mother who had the greenest of thumbs.

If all goes well, I will move into a condo which looks out over the treetops of a neighborhood, and has deep, deep windowsills on which I can keep a few sturdy plants. I would love to be able to take a bit of the yard with me...without the mowing.

"It sounds like the last act of Traviata"...

I cannot claim to have uttered these words. No, they emerged from the illustrious mind of our church choir director and organist par excellance. I'll have to admit that it took me a while to put the joke together, perhaps because it was beginning to be the witching hour of the day for me - that time when the brain just starts to fade into shut down mode. The sad part is that I was actually one of the guilty parties in the description. When I did make the connection, I couldn't help but guffaw. Sorry for those within earshot. As I said, couldn't help it.

You see, it is spring in the Bayou City. Glorious time of year. Everything blooming, trees sprouting - a generalized coming alive going on. And with all of this delight comes, wait for it, ridiculous amounts of pollen and whatever else throws ones eyes, noses, and sinuses into fits of discomfort. And here we were trying to sing with all of that going on in our heads. All that leads to is fits of coughing and sniffling and clearing of one's throat and more coughing and hacking.

So, what is the connection to La Traviata,Verdi's operatic tragedy? Hmmmmmm. As it turns out, the heroine, in the final act, is on her death bed with tuberculosis.

Oh my... Such a very bad joke, but so very true. I couldn't get an acceptable breath all evening. As much as I love spring, it may be a good time for the simple green of summer to take hold around here and give our repiratory systems a break!