Favorite summer meal, Open face tomato sandwich with bacon & fresh mozzarella.

A true masculine chauvinist product of his generation, my FIL never could understand why I invested time in calla lilies instead of the edible delights practical gardening had to offer. It didn’t seem to matter that I didn’t have an adequate location for a vegetable patch. The back yard, too shady, and the front yard was under the fascist rule of the homeowners association. My green thumb… wasn’t. I’ve murdered enough basil, rosemary, and oregano to supply a chain of Italian restaurants for a year. I never succeeded with potted herbs. I just dried them…on the stems. Nonetheless, he felt I should enjoy the labors of vegetable gardening as much as he did.

What he might not have known, or possibly remembered, was I had a garden once. The summer I met his son, I attempted a small “bucket” garden behind my duplex. Half a dozen plants in five gallon buckets. Tomatoes and jalapeno peppers. I had visions of fresh salsa and open faced tomato sandwiches. The plants flourished. The tomato vines were so healthy I draped them over the clothes line to prevent the fruit from rotting.

Things went well, until I started spending more time with the one who was to become the Better Half. In my absence, the birds turned my garden into salad bar and pecking holes in each to tomato and absconding with all the peppers. The plants were healthy but naked. As if that wasn’t bad enough, my houseplants begin dying one by one until the only remaining live botanical was au succulent stuffed in an insufficient amount of potting soil.

In light of the results, I concluded that I was only qualified to nurture one relationship at a time and five gallon buckets were assigned other uses.

Perhaps I was hasty or superstitious, but it can be burdensome to nurture. Need nags and some withstand the drain better than others, not that it isn’t good to be needed… We are simply not allowed to quantify the dosage, and are left to cope with that which is thrust upon us.

At times I long to contribute to the myth that artistic endeavors are about capturing beauty, intense emotion, or harnessing passion but the unromantic aspect about it for some is simply that it is nothing more than another bottle to crawl out of, a welcome distraction, or solace we can unapologetically escape into from the rest of the world. In the absence of sentimentality, there can lie a functional purpose.

In this case the purpose is clear labeling for recycling bins. We don’t have curbside recycling here, and it is the responsibility of the occupant to deliver recyclables to town center and sort them according to classification in rows of dumpsters. Surprisingly community participation is higher than in areas of the county where curbside recycling is available.

There are attendants on site to assist the elderly and those with mobility issues. The town has contracted those positions to a local agency that specializes in placing people with special needs in jobs. For the community it a win-win.

After months spending time separating items on site and double and triple handling things, I accumulated enough cat litter containers to recycle accepted items. It worked well until the attendants cleaned out the back of my vehicle for me and tried to hijack my bins. It wasn’t malicious. They were simply trying to be of use and recycle all recyclable containers.

This prompted a labeling spree on my part. Form follows function, and though less passionate, clear identification improves communication. Each container has five labels, in order to cover all product labels and so that no matter how the bin is positioned the contents are easily visible. Of the five labels for each bin, there are three different illustrations done in gel pen and marker (mostly because I need the practice).

II don’t usually discuss the time I spend on a project, but this project took more time than I anticipated (weeks instead of days). When I finished spread the labels out to justify the labor and felt a little better about it…twenty-four different designs and forty illustrations in all.

Technical Blah, Blah,Blah: The containers used are cat litter bins (35 -40 lb. capacity) with an attached hinged lid, which seal tightly and keep odors restrained (even kitchen compost). Each label is laminated to prevent moisture from damaging the illustrations. Label sizes are: 7.375″ x 6″, 5,5″ x 7.375″, and 7.5″ x 7.375″.

Below are samples of each label size and a finished product photo. If you wish to view a pdf file of all twenty-four different illustrations leave me a message in the comments and I will email you copy with the understanding that you are permitted to print out for your own personal use, but you are not permitted to distribute or claim credit for my designs in any way.

I wonder how many marriages have disintegrated because of dirty clothes piled on the floor or an automobile that was denied regular oil changes.

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Working indoors when the weather starts improving, sucks.

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How stark is the contrast of the way other’s view us when compared to the way we view ourselves?

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Why congress is permitted to dictate the laws of the land when they are currently exhibiting all the professionalism of kindergartners.

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Is are ability to like others swayed by whether are not we can influence their behaviors which we don not like.

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How many friendships are dictated by convenience? Geography?

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I want oatmeal cookies with chocolate chips and dried cranberries.

I forgot myself, between the pillow fluffing, and the requisite deep sigh that follows turning off the lamp. I paused recalling notion of prayer, then rolled over on my side to count sheep as if nothing had ever happened.

I haven’t prayed of my own volition in a long time. (The Better Half and I take turns giving thanks at meals, but I don’t consider appreciation to food providers to be in the same ball park as say, god please help relieve my gout and watch over my children.”) I observe the niceties and respectfulness of belief one learns to survive in the bible belt to prevent drawing condemnation. It my not sound like it, but I sincerely attempt to be respectful of other’s beliefs. I’ve nothing to gain by destroying another’s faith.

I grew up shadowing my parent’s beliefs. I didn’t think I had a choice. Not in the “If you don’t beg Jesus for forgiveness, I’m gonna get you with a switch..” kind of way, but in the “your only choice is vanilla” kind of way. When I got older, I read more and eventually abandon the flock, and thankfully most of the flock failed to notice.

When I tossed the vestiges of religion, the last item to strike the floor was prayer. I think part of the reason was it was ingrained; not like habitually parking on the same row at the grocery store, but more like taking the pill the same time every day. Eventually it evolved into something cathartic, like writing in a journal. An opportunity to organize your thoughts and empty your head in preparation for a solid night’s sleep, until finally I began unceremoniously turning the light switch and rolling onto my side.

When my father-in-law was in the last throes of lucidity, trying to manage my mother-in-law’s dementia outbursts, I remember him asking us to pray for them. I suspected that his desired outcome from prayer was a very specific one. Something akin to putting spilt milk back in the heifer. I put a lot of thought into the request of an emotionally battered old man, and even based upon my pre-libris beliefs, I had difficulty convincing myself that even if I believed in his god with the same faith as he, I would have difficulty conceiving of a being who would be willing to turn back the hands of time and present my FIL with the pre-demencial woman he loved, who baked him pies, bore him children, and praised his fishing prowess. Even if I prayed to his god on his behalf, and his god accepted the sincerity of an atheist the desired outcome….

My willingness to conform to the prescribed desire to offer prayers on behalf of others who thought they were in need, provided me a vehicle to avoid confrontation. I didn’t have anything to lose because I don’t believe in anything. But, I began wondering if I was violating my own desires to be respectful of others, by the omission of personal truth in submitting to another’s respect for prayer. Was I being disrespectful to the beliefs of friends and family, by offering the comfort of prayer to a god I didn’t believe in?

I always thought the hardest part about not believing would be the persecution. Not from everyone, but some. For each person who is respectful of differences in beliefs, there are those who are not, and face it, the most dogmatic are the ones who receive the most attention. The hardest part is trying to offer comfort to the people in your life who do believe, and expect a very specific flavor of comfort; prayer. I want to offer my support, my “best wishes”, and my desire for I brighter tomorrow, but I can’t always because I don’t believe the world works that way. There are times when there are no answers because life carries on.

I hope they can detect, I want only the best for them, offering respect that will not diminish their beliefs, nor mine.