Sometimes I like to pretend I’m a priest. Yes, I know that’s an odd occupational fantasy for a Jewish woman, but I like to think a woman really could be a priest some day. Well, I suppose that even if THAT were possible the Vatican would probably veto me for being Jewish.
This pastime started innocently enough as I would wander through my garden and chant the Latin names of the plants as I sprinkled the miracle grow. I like to swing it side to side while chanting and I feel very much like a…well, maybe priestess would be a better term. Kind of Mother Nature-like if you know what I mean. It’s quite appropriate when you consider I am handing out “miracle” grow here and giving them my blessing.
They say that talking to the plants helps them grow and I do believe this. I remember last summer when I had some salvia that just doesn’t doing well and I went into my Godfather role while threatening them. I’d yank out some lackluster performer and holding it up as an example I'd admonish the rest with “You see this….this could be you. Now…I’m a gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse. You either shape up and grow straight or you’ll swim with the compost”. I then cut off a small plastic horse’s head and left it in their midst. I think they got the picture because they flourished afterwards. But then again, it may have been the rain we got that night….who knows.
This may have been somewhat induced by heatstroke as that flower bed is out by the road and in full sun, something I don’t handle very well. Which is unfortunate as this is where the neighbors are able to view me as I crawl along on my hands and knees in the dirt muttering to myself. I’ve noticed that some of the younger families make their children cross to the other side of the street when I’m in the yard. I believe I’ve become THAT woman in the neighborhood that kids talk about. Most of the adult neighbors just walk by with their wineglasses and smile. I love this valley.
Anyway, I digress. In our canned ham the screen door has a small plastic slide to access the handle and keep the insects out. Left Brain was outside grilling supper last night and I was sitting on the toolbox that holds his clothes by the bunk bed chatting with him. I forget what he said (actually I seldom listen as he’s usually talking to himself) and all of a sudden I felt the compulsion strike.
I slid the door open and asked in my best Irish brogue “what is it you’d like to tell me, my son?” He turned and looked confused….as he often does….and I continued with “go forth and say two Oy Veys and three Hail Mary’s and you will be forgiven”. Then I slammed the little partition closed. He was caught off guard, but his early childhood Catholic training kicked in and started to laugh.
It just proves that confession is good for the soul.
Long Live the High Priestess of the Canned Ham