My annual Felder Fesses Up column usually commemorates the good and the bad of the year we're leaving behind as I inevitably conclude what a weird year that was.
In the liminal “thin place” between the old and the new year, I remember the past year’s foibles and follies and wonder what quirks and curiosities the new year will drag along with it, like tin cans tied to the bumper of a wedding car.
Yet a fictional event predicted 60 years ago is an offbeat marker of how things have progressed. As a kid did you marvel at The Jetson’s futuristic robots, computers, holograms, commuter spaceships, and other inventions, all now used routinely? But get this: according to the show’s timeline, George was to be born in 2022. The future is actually here.
Anyway, for some reason, this year I don't feel like fessing up. I've been doing it all year with fellow imperfect gardeners on the Mississippi Facebook page. Despite heavy spring rains, hot dry summer, giant stinkbugs, and who knows yet what this latest winter storm has wrought, my year's biggest ‘fessing is of chagrin: having a basal cell cancer spot successfully cut from my nose, from a lifetime of not wearing sunscreen. Let's all do better.
And talk about crape murder! In a both backward and proactive step, I helped my son Ira chainsaw a huge, scale-infested crape myrtle; rather than face decades of applying powerful insecticides every year or two, he literally cut his losses. But we recycled the thick stems into a funky, rustic fence around my front garden.
One of my year’s - heck, my life’s - most poignant events was captured in a photograph of me and my toddler granddaughter Ali doing something together, for the first time, in my garden. Seizing the moment, I showed little Ali how to get goldfish to eat from her hand, just as I was shown stuff as a kid in my great-grandmother’s garden.
For years, I’ve encouraged people to ‘take a kid to a farmer’s market…’. Maudlin, perhaps, but it is important to seize such little moments, knowing they may impact more than just us, sometimes for far longer. Like the Dec. 31 tradition of Father Time passing the torch to Baby New Year.
Finally, I did something odd this year to keep me focused on the here and now. From the center of my garden’s entry arbor, I hung a unique feature I call The Rope. The five-foot length of thick, Manila rope has a large knot tied near one end and obstructs the path so there is no way to pass without touching it.
It is surprisingly heavy, and hairy to the touch, both of which are unexpected tactile experiences to garden visitors. First-time callers usually wonder aloud if they could swing from it.
Unlike a fixed, protective gate, The Rope’s purpose is simple: Touching something so rough and physical makes everyone slow down. Makes them feel something, to literally handle the subtle transition between a large, complex world, and a smaller, calmer, more secure space.
Just as my daughter Zoe fist-bumps the line of eager noses of the older, less-adoptable dogs at the animal shelter she helps manage, I punch the knot, briefly moving The Rope aside as I pass between two realms of reality. It says both “Good luck, come home safely” and “There and back again - welcome home.”
The Rope is my everyday New Year’s moment - a reminder of coming and going, hopefully better each time. In retrospect, there’s been good stuff, not-so-good stuff. Better next year, eh?
