Toward the Unknown

It's happened to all of us. You're writing, or typing, or even speaking when all of a sudden you can't remember how to spell or say a certain word. I found myself in this unnerving situation today while editing a client’s document. The culprit? Toward. Or is it towards?

Abraham Lincoln told us, “With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds.” But 20th-century English biographer David Cecil advises: “The first step towards knowledge is to know that we are ignorant.” Today, my first step toward/towards knowledge seems to be stuck in the grammar phase. I suppose I have, however, readily admitted my ignorance.

In any case, I said the words out loud over and over again. I thought about it rationally. Does it depend on the subject? A duck could go toward the pond. But ducks could go toward the pond as well. No help. Adding an “s” to toward doesn’t make it plural because it’s a preposition, so I was stuck. You fellow grammar nerds out there will not be surprised that I first turned to Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style. This type of dilemma is right up William Strunk’s alley. But nothing. Finally, Google produced some helpful references.

According to Kenneth G. Wilson’s The Columbia Guide to Standard American English and Paul Brians’ Common Errors in English Usage, both words are interchangeable. However, toward is more common in the U.S. and towards is more common in the U.K. I should have known—those Brits with all their unnecessary letters.

Peas please!

Today Christian and I planted sweet peas. I've never tried them before, so we'll see how they do. I bought little starts at the Deeps and a cute little trellis in hopes they they'll grow into bountiful, delicious vines. Yes, my hopes are probably a little high. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do with them when they do grow! How do you know if they're sugar snap peas or the kind you have to shuck? I guess you take a bite out of the pod and if it's gross you shuck it? I checked out the Western Garden Book in hopes of answering some of my myriad gardening questions. Now, if only I had a garden . . .

A week of firsts

It seems strange that this week could have been so beautiful after the events of the last couple weeks, but perhaps it's fitting. On Wednesday, Christian and the puppies and I took our first evening walk through my neighborhood. I felt like skipping. I skipped everywhere when I was a kid, and it was one of those evening where it just seemed appropriate. I didn't of course, because it would get the dogs wound up, but I was skipping in my head. The weather was still cool, but the fact that we willingly went outside at 8 pm should speak for itself. Also on Wednesday, by basil seeds finally sprouted. Nothing for either of the peppers yet, except an outbreak of little flying bugs. Oh well, I still have hope and I'm excited about the basil. Last night, in a very fitting celebration of the first day of spring, I exchanged the empty propane tank, BBQed some black bean burgers, and put the chair cushions out on the patio for happy hour. Becky and Norah stopped by and we hung out on the patio all evening. It's such a relief that those days are back or at least soon to be back on a regular basis. On my run Tuesday, the daffodils looked like they were about ready to burst, and sure enough, this morning when we were walking the dogs I saw a whole row of beautiful yellow daffodils in bloom in front of a house. Although thunderstorms and hail are promised for the afternoon, spring is definitely here and hopefully the hope and excitement that comes with it. I am truly trying to live each day to the fullest and keep Pat in my mind everyday. His funeral on Monday was incredible - incredibly sad but so inspiring. Margaret gave me some beautiful flowers from the service that can be replanted. The hydrangea is gorgeous and I'm hoping I can keep it alive until I can find a fitting permanent home for it. Along those lines, I think I'll head off the library for a gardening book. I need all the help I can get!

One week

It's hard to believe that it's been a week since I was in the middle of a blog post when I got the call that my uncle had passed away. I was blogging about planting seeds and creating life and the wonder of spring when I heard that my uncle's life was over. I couldn't reconcile all that, and I still can't. I hope the irises from my Grandma's garden will sprout. I put them in the ground last Sunday right before he passed away and it would be a nice tribute to see them bloom year after year. But I'm not getting my hopes up with my brown thumb. I think they should have gone in the ground last fall. Although he's been gone a week, I think it will take much longer than that for it to sink in. I don't think I'll ever understand it but will just have to accept it. He touched so much of the community and is an inspiration to me. I'm proud that he was my uncle, and somehow, in the face of such irrepressible grief, that pride is a comforting feeling. I just wish there was more I could do to help my family members who are hurting so much right now. It's such a helpless feeling.

Growing things

Despite the snow that is flying today, I am preparing for spring as a measure of keeping my sanity. There is something very therapeutic about sowing seeds and growing things in the face of so much sorrow and grief.

Further proof

While on a rather painful and uninspiring run on Tuesday, I saw my first blooming crocus of the year. I never really notice when they first pop out of the ground because they are just so nondescript and grass-like, so I'm always astonished when I see those first bright purple or yellow flowers heralding in the spring. Tulips and daffodils stand out a little more and each year I seem to anxiously await their vibrant blooms, but crocus are always a pleasant surprise. I bought myself an already sprouted red tulip at WinCo this week but haven't felt like braving the weather to go plant it. It snowed last night and is windy and cool today. But I have always wanted to plant a tulip. There is something very romantic to me about planting something that comes back every year and leaving it behind in a place you once lived. I'm hoping to plant them in front of the Mini so I can come back in 20 years and show my kids the tiny, cute little house I used to live in. They'll laugh and think I had it rough, but I'll never have anything but great memories of the Mini. As both dogs lay here sleeping, one pressed up against each foot, I don't feel like this place is small at all because we'd be doing the same thing in 2,000 square feet. Sometimes - no most of the time - cozy is good.

My Silent Spring

I know that uttering the word spring on February 18 does nothing but set up false hope, so I'm hoping that by placing the word here on my computer screen I will keep my silent spring firmly in the realm of actual hope. Although there is still quite a bite in the air and the trees stand as stark and barren as they did in January, today was the first day where I could feel the change is coming. Sometimes I think I actually like this part of the year the best. It's still cold and the snow could fly tomorrow, but there is that real promise of spring. It is the anticipation that I love the best. Perhaps it's the same reason I never minded not being in love. When you're not in love, you know you will get to fall all over again. But once all the beautiful summer days come, I find myself missing the anticipation. This time of year feels full of promise and better things to come. It's like being a four-year-old on Christmas eve but for weeks at a time. I love this time of year.

Although the change is subtle, I know I'm not alone in my anticipation. Everything was different today. The neighbors smiled a little bigger and Kira's tail wagged a little wider (to the detriment of the skaters and runners who thought they might be able to share Kira's sidewalk). People took five minutes to talk to each other, a welcome change from the bundled up, split-second exchanges people share during the months where the goal is to get from warm spot to warm spot as quickly as possible. To top it all off, as Kira and I walked through the neighborhood I saw what my scientific eye was waiting for . . . irrefutable proof that spring is coming. Under the curled up, brown leaves of last year's pansies, I saw small green shoots and leaves springing up, ready to relieve the tired winter foliage of its ugly place-holding duties. I'm not ready to yell it out quite yet, but spring is definitely rooted in the realm of hopeful possibilities. You can't argue with the pansies.