Zone Envy by Lea Ann Robson

Pineapple w/limb full of mangos

I’ve been outside, gleefully planting in the mud.    My genetic clock refuses to be reset, despite 21 years away from the West Virginia hometown where these seasonal markers make sense.  It has to be some hindbrain function, as completely entrenched & unreachable as the tap-rooted weeds popping up through my stone patio. 

Ground Orchid cluster

At 2am, I was pounding a Phillips head screwdriver into my yard & wiggling it to make spaces for my new solar lights.  After that I planted hot pink, crimson & scarlet Kalanchoes in my yellow planters…because in spring we plant flowers…no matter how many are already blooming year-round in the tropics.  Lately Home Depot (oh, my beloved Home Depot) is chock full of continentals (stateside transplants), mostly women close to my age, filling carts with anachronistic bedding plants & bags of soil, in some knee-jerk reaction to Spring.  If our brainwave activity had a verbal interpretation, it would read “MUST DIG & PLANT…MUST DIG & PLANT,” like some Cro-Magnon tickertape printout. 

External cues are so different here.  Spring’s rays of light are of the longer, golden variety reserved for autumn in the continental states.  Mahogany trees actually drop their shiny leaves in the spring, with each breeze initiating an insane leaf dance that is at once graceful & leathery…& confusing. 

And yet these tropical tricks don’t still the impulse to add more flowers, plant herbs & vegetables, & to start over. 

Waterlemon (passion fruit family) bloom

The do-over is a common thread here.  Many of us came to St. Croix because something wasn’t working, wasn’t quite right where we were & we hoped this big leap of locale would hit our reset switch, knock us out of the groove we were wearing in our lives, & give us the new perspective we sought.  For many of us, it worked spectacularly.  For others, not so much. 

Even for the successful transplants, certain ingrained behaviors were either hard to shake, or reappeared after we had initially overcome them.   Though I’ve long since abandoned stockings & heels, I still tend to overdress in defiance of the casual chic vibe here.  It was part of the identity I wasn’t willing to jettison, regardless of the impracticality in this environment. 

So for 21 years, when March, April, & May roll around & despite the fact I have to concentrate hard every morning to even determine what month it is (our temperature only varies 5-10 degrees, year round), my brain says plant, & so plant I do. 

Some of us long to be able to grow things they left behind, & Home Depot’s packing policy fuels that nostalgia.  When they have room in garden supply containers bound for our islands, Home Depot packs empty spaces with whatever plants they have in abundance, regardless of their zonal incompatibility.  The latest is one of my favorites, Hydrangeas.  I love the shape of their leaves, their flower colors, & the fact they’re a living science experiment with flower hues indicating the acidity of the soil.  HD’s massed displays of the short shrubs are so tempting, even knowing what I know about how miserable they will be here.  Like dieting, frequently that denial of what we instinctually crave causes a pendulum swing & a binge the other direction.

Kalanchoes

So I planted Kalanchoes instead.   Lots of Kalanchoes.  Everywhere.

The subverted need to plant tomatoes popped out the other side & I planted instead the local substitute for cilantro—Recao.  It has a broader, long leaf with serrated edges, & when a shower hits them after a day of sun, the scent released is fresh & clean.  I also grow lots of lemongrass & several varieties of basil.  The lemongrass blob is huge & clippings infuse most everything I cook, most of the year.  I steep it with basmati rice, steam it with asparagus spears (imports, I’m sad to say) & Brussels sprouts (they grow here as do most cruciferous veggies—leggy but functional).   

I pound the base of the lemongrass stalks & steep them with lemon bay rum leaves, peppermint tea bags & a generous amount of Lipton bags to make a fragrant iced tea & a wonderful smelling house. 

A note here about tomatoes:  I have successfully grown heirloom varieties here, if you accept success as smaller & more sparse fruit that tastes pretty wonderful anyway.  A couple of their small, peppery slices on a sandwich with whole wheat bread quell any longing for pretty much anything.  And of course the season is almost here for mangos, Surinam cherries & my favorite pineapples, along with bananas… bananas… bananas (not a complaint, merely a statement of plenty).

Dendrobium Andree Millar
 

So as soon as the rain slacks a bit I’ll be back outside, drilling drain holes in planters, flopping big bags of soil from place to place & planting sunflowers, zinnias…& heirloom tomatoes.  (That sandwich sounded too good to pass up.) 

Happy Spring, regardless of what zone you’re in!

Nothing Happens in a Vacuum, by Lea Ann Robson

 

Or so they told us in science class, but I’m not sure they knew the scope of that statement.   Yesterday I opened an envelope full of clippings from my Mom.  I’m over 50 now & she still clips & sends things she finds useful…or interesting…or hopeful. I still look forward to reading them. Yesterday the envelope was full of photos & lines about the Special Olympics held near her Gulf Coast Florida home.  Her primary reason for sending them was for the pictures of the local police officers who were volunteering with the Special Olympics.  She did it so I could put faces to the names of the coworkers she mentions frequently & with more than a little pride.  She volunteers with the force, & though I’m definitely biased I take the fact that she was just given the Volunteer of the Year Award as proof I’m not the only one who values her sizeable contribution. 

 

I too am more than a little proud.

 

So, after recognizing nearly all the captioned names for the officers pictured, I read the attached article.  I laughed as I read about the 8 year old runner who was so overjoyed with his race that he just kept running…& running…eventually necessitating an impromptu chase by his Mother & a couple of volunteers before his energy could be contained…

And then, like a swift punch came the memory that other headlines yesterday described another 8 year old, another race, & an unimaginably different outcome. 

In my mind now, those two 8 year olds & their stories are permanently linked.  I won’t ever again see the photos of the victim without seeing those of the victor in that other race.

And I’ll see the volunteers & first responders in both races…and rely on those images to move forward.  

Darwin & Do-Overs, by Lea Ann Robson

Twenty years ago I hit St. Croix like a trop storm, all full of random energy going every which way.  I had just turned thirty & was coming from a type A job (Claims Rep) in the type A capital of the free world—Maryland/D.C.  I had adapted to that life fairly well despite being, in actuality, about a type G minus. 

 

So when our pipe-dream became (against all odds) a reality & we moved to St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands, I made that landing complete with a shiny resume’ chock full of declarative statements & action verbs, a suitcase full of power suits, & several pairs of very controlling control-top pantyhose.

 

Despite a Liberal Arts degree & multiple, seemingly unrelated majors & minors, I had only worked at one profession since I graduated & so my paper pedigree appeared much more focused & driven than the actual me.  So I hit sort of a paradise catch 22.  I needed a paycheck, so I sought jobs my resume’ said I was suited to (pun intended) & papered all the local insurance agencies with my applications.    

 

I tried to ignore the long, gaping looks & sniggering reactions to my forthright self, my linen-textured resume’ & the aforementioned control-tops.  In twenty-odd offices I was variously ignored, tolerated, placated, blown off, or met with ringing silence comparable to what a kangaroo might encounter upon trying to hail a taxi or order a latte. 

 

So, having been a lifelong fan of Darwin, I took a step back, sized up the preposterousness of my approach, & calculated how best to adapt & survive in this new environment.  At last seeing it through the eyes of those I had approached, I finally laughed at what they found funny—this typing-paper-white woman dressed in ridiculously inappropriate-to-the-heat garb, presenting a piece of paper that might just as well have stated “I have no idea where I am & I won’t last 6 months here, so please give me a job!”  Once I saw it as they did, I lost my nerve & knew I had to have an alternate plan.

 

So I went home & built my loom.

 

Not kidding, that is really what I did. 

 

My loom today, displaying another product of ADD (Artistic Deficit Disorder), My painted Cigar Boxes



How do you get a floor loom in the tropics, you might ask.  You persuade your then-husband a weaving business on a beautiful island can be viable, convincing him that shipping all your belongings through the USPS packed in yarn would keep them safe & secure (which it did—only one broken bowl in 33 boxes).  You cajole him into believing the financial & logistical commitment to shipping 5 huge boxes of unfinished loom parts from Maryland to St. Croix will be a stellar proposition. 

 

Facing the pile of adult-sized tinker toys that would become my loom, I was reminded that I had NO mechanical ability, construction experience, or other aptitude for such a task.  And so, remembering the bemused faces as they read my resume’, I built it anyway. 

 

I sanded all the pieces of hardwood carefully, then applied & wiped off a coat of ½ linseed oil & ½ paint thinner.  With the first coat the wood had the tone of light clover honey, & by the second it glowed a warm amber.  The process made the wood irresistible to my fingers, & twenty years later I still absently drag my hand along the front beam when I pass it in my living room, delighting to the satiny cool feel (& knocking off some of the dust of disuse, without accepting liability for it).

 

Not being a husband, I felt no compulsion to discard instruction sheets & instead poured over them as if they contained the secrets of DNA.  I lined up wooden & metal pieces as they appeared on the written sheet, as if that would cause it to magically self-assemble.  When that failed, I rose above my inabilities like a dyslexic swan-diving into Tolstoy, and after a week of uber-concentration mixed with trial & error, I had a functioning floor loom that would weave cloth 48” (or doubled, with a fold on one side—96”) wide. 

 

Or at least it would have if I hadn’t warped it upside down.  Yup.  I got so excited at my new building skills I forgot all others, namely the steps to dress the loom in preparation for weaving.  I had been repeating these steps hundreds of times since I learned to weave at 12 years old, but this was the first time that the threads ended up bypassing the back beam entirely.  I had painstakingly accomplished all the other steps, including gridding the pattern on graph paper, winding yards of fine yarn so that the threads weren’t tangled together, cranking the length on the back beam, threading each yarn end through each metal eye & the metal reed in the appropriate order, & finally tying the yarn to the rod under the front beam in groups, adjusting & re-adjusting so each thread was held in equal tension to all the others. 

 

But somehow I had threaded under instead of over the back beam.  This meant the tension would be impossible to maintain & therefore all that work would be pointless & I’d have to slice off & discard my beautiful silk threads. 

 

I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  So, I stepped back, studied the problem & tried to adapt. 

 

There was a pile of scrap wood on the porch of our little cottage.  It was the remains of a tiki bar some oil refinery workers (the previous tenants) had built on the back deck.  I found a 2 x 4 the appropriate length, but it had seen better days & was too rough & catchy to get anywhere near the fine silk, even after sanding. 

 

So I got a roll of Cutrite Waxed paper & covered the 2 x 4 as a  faux beam, inserted it under the warp near the beam that should have been under the warp, & happily started stomping pedals & wham-whamming the reed against the rapidly forming new cloth.  It wasn’t perfect or easy, but it worked & that fabric means more to me than any other I’ve made. 

 

These were only my FIRST adaptations to life here in this strange paradise.  I can’t remember or even count most of the rest. 

 

And now, two decades later that same loom stands covered not in threads, but in carved & painted cigar boxes, one of my other projects.  Beautiful lining fabrics are folded & stacked nearby & the finished pieces will be a feature at my Agriculture Fair booth on President’s Day weekend.  I’ve adapted them into purses, jewelry & treasure boxes, & while I make sure they are still recognizable in their origins, I like to think I’ve added charm & function with what I’ve done. 

 



AgriFest 2013 From the C Booth

Ag Fair may be different this year, because we’ve lost so many residents due to our refinery closing, July of 2012.  St. Croix is facing challenges of epic scale, & the joy on our tourists’ faces is sometimes met with lines of concern on those of the residents.  Fortunately, every visitor’s smile is a reminder of what we have here, what we can offer others, and how important it will be for us to choose carefully how we will adapt.  As a part of this community, I hope & believe we will do so by maintaining our numerous treasures, adding charm & improving function.   



Frog Blog, by Lea Ann Robson

One of the orchids on my porch

How many times in your life have you cut a corner, knowing the probable outcome but somehow feeling you’ll be exempt…because you’re a good person?  You answer your cell while you’re driving…or you wear heels in weather only suited for boots.  You rock back on two legs of a chair…or you floor it to catch an orange light (yellow that changes to red while you’re under it).  You write a check to pay a bill, hoping the one you deposited has cleared & you’ll have funds to cover it. 

 

Just as it is human nature to tempt fate, we try to distance ourselves from preventable disaster…after the fact.  We pass a fender bender & think somebody involved did something WRONG (in all caps, whereas we never do anything more than wrong, all lower case).   You slip & fall flat of your arse in a snow bank, those impractical heels sticking out like an inverted turtle’s flippers.  You NEVER saw it coming…except of course you did.

 

Last night I awoke from a sofacoma, & dragged my still half asleep body around the house setting things up for my early morning today.  I washed the dinner dishes I had left in the sink, squinting to read the time on the microwave display:  3:20am.  Ugh. I set up the coffee maker, getting a short-lived boost from sniffing the freshly ground espresso roast.  I filled my dog’s food & water bowls.  I picked an outfit.  I was stepping into the shower when it hit me—I had forgotten to water the plants on the porch.  Most are orchids & several have buds, & long & short, I couldn’t ignore them.  So, clothes back on & out I went. 



One of the orchids on the porch

 

I didn’t bother to flip the switch for the porch light, thinking the less my neighbors could see of my hasty dressing job, the better.  I was happy to find my watering can full.  When I finished with the can, I uncovered the bucket of water I keep to dunk the beautiful cascading orchid that was a birthday gift for my 50^th from my best friend.  The makeshift lid doesn’t really cover the top of the bucket entirely, but I did it to discourage the frogs from setting up housekeeping & having babies in there. 

 

I have NOTHING against normal frogs.  I’m grateful they eat mosquitoes.  I even make ‘Christmas Coqui’ ornaments—styled to look like Puerto Rico’s beloved frog mascots.  Unfortunately, we don’t have normal frogs, and I’m not alone in my disdain for them. 

 

We have light sandy-white colored frogs that burrow in potting soil around your plants, or hide atop the roof support pillars of your house.   That isn’t so bad, but couple it with their attitude, & you’ve got an evil reptile.  When startled, our frogs spray liquid at you with the zeal of a department store perfume girl, trying to meet a quota.  I won’t go into what frogs spray, but trust me it isn’t perfume, & it stains. (Pause for inevitable “ICK.”)  

 

And so last night, just like the caution-light runner, or in-car texter, or inadvertent ice dancer, I pulled the lid off the bucket in the dark, knowing what might happen, but believing somehow that it wouldn’t…couldn’t…and then there was a frog on my face.  He landed with a wet, suctiony ‘SCHWAP’ on my right cheek as I slung my head violently to send him sailing off the porch & into the bougainvillea.

 

Fortunately, I didn’t think he had time to squirt at me (no doubt because I am a good person).

 

I ran back inside, dropped my clothes in a pile & stepped into the shower.

And then the power went off.

The Breakfast Club, by Lea Ann Robson

As a kid I judged the quality of vacation days by the number of wet bathing suits draped over the porch furniture by sundown.  Now I’m 50, & happy to say I judge weekdays that way. 

The sea was a little too riled up to snorkel this morning at dawn, but I wore my mask to try to avoid large rock & coral formations that might prove dangerous when coupled with the surge. Even trying to pick glass out of the shallows before I got in, I was nearly knocked on my fanny.  I took some comfort in the presence of the ‘breakfast club,’ the gang of retired people who gather to bob in the surf & talk politics & current events most mornings.  Some of them move slowly or may need a cane to walk on land, but they take their ritual soak in the sea even when it is rougher than I like.  I suppose they’ve been through hurricanes & rougher things than the surf that gives me pause.

What I do with my Quarry (sea glass pendants)

It was too rough to stay in the shallows next to the rocks, so I swam out a bit, past the coral formations I know by heart.  Today they were shrouded in opaque aqua surf & the only thing I could make out startled me—a large spotted eagle ray.  He had a full length tail unlike a lot of the rays who have had close encounters with boats, & I initially noticed him because he tipped to the right & a ray of bright sunlight hit his white belly. 

 

As I swam back, I was able to grab a couple of pieces of glass before the surf tried to yank them out of my hands.  I realized as I struggled back onto the beach that though my collection bag was lighter than it had been in ages, I’m glad I came to the beach.  I’m ALWAYS glad I come to the beach, no matter what the conditions.

A Tale of Two Turkeys, by Lea Ann Robson

Mu, who is thankful for a nap spot

Yesterday was Thanksgiving, which makes today the infamous Black Friday.  Though I’ve never been much of a ‘joiner,’ I toyed with the idea that getting up at 4am to be in line for the 5am opening of Home Depot might be fun…for a lark.  And then I woke up.

 

Let me preface by saying I LOVE HOME DEPOT.  Oh, & by the way, did I mention how much I care for HOME DEPOT?  In September of 2011, we did join the crowd thronging (whatever that actually means?) in front of the new HD here on St. Croix.  We stood in the sun in the parking lot, listened to the speeches, watched the ribbon-cutting, & got caught up in the excitement.  Excitement, I’m happy to say, that hasn’t yet worn off.  I quip to friends that I’m going to Home Depot…where (as at Tiffany’s, according to Holly Golightly) nothing bad can ever happen to you. 

 

They were kind enough to build the store just over the hill from where I work, enabling me (in the addictive sense of that word) to make an excuse to stop there two or three times a week on my way home.  I might have something on my list to legitimize the trip or more likely not, but I rarely leave without something in hand guaranteed to improve my home, my yard, or my life.  (Did I tell you how I feel about Home Depot?)

 

This morning, the lure to leave my bed at 4am was strong, as they were chumming for me with $2.50 potted poinsettias (limit 12).  Visions of red danced in my head, in window boxes on my porch railing, mounded on my stoop, EVERYWHERE I could fit a plant.  I tried to con friends into going with me to buy their ‘limit 12’ & sell them to me.  I studied the ad & made a list of other things I ‘needed’ to make me seem less silly than if I did what I was really doing— just going for poinsettias. 

 

I had a lovely plan wherein I would get up at 4, arrive at HD at 5, coffee in hand, & then be at the beach by 7 for a swim…all before work.  And then I started watching “Please Don’t Eat the Daisies” last night & when I finished at 2:30am, the plan was history. 

My Herb bed (At the far left & right edges are poinsettias)

 

And then I realized the SHOULD spell was broken…just as it had been the day before when I ignored Thanksgiving ‘peer pressure,’ worked, swam, & ate (Lost Dog Pub) pizza instead.  My one concession came from a thoughtful co-worker who brought me slices of pumpkin & apple pie.  They were wonderful, & still I’m not plagued with the guilt of a fridge full of leftovers, turkey or otherwise.    

 

As for tradition, I held to one for this holiday.  I GAVE THANKS…but then again I do that daily here.  At sunset my friends & I were in the sea watching a gorgeous raspberry-tinged sunset…& we gave thanks.  And for the freedom to think & act as we want, not as we ‘must’ here on this island of misfit toys, I give thanks again & again. 

Bounty (No Threat of Mutiny), by Lea Ann Robson

My sink, brimful of mangos...again

This morning, like most mornings here in St. Croix, produced much for which I’m thankful.  Regardless of my GPS locale, I’m still an American & so I’ll make a short list (because that’s what we do).  I am thankful for, & in no particular order:

FAMILY, both by birth & by choice.  For my Mom & Dennis in Florida, & my other ‘chosen’ family here on the island (& in Texas for the moment—fill up on turkey & tortillas & get your tuchas home!), I am grateful beyond words…all evidence to the contrary!  I know how lucky I am to be surrounded (near & far) by people who ‘get it,’ & who make every day interesting & goofy & worthy of a little sappy sentiment, so there!  Living this far from the mainland for two decades means I get to ‘choose’ my island family, & I’m fortunate to surround myself with a fascinating group of kindred souls with divergent interests.  We get called down in restaurants for having too much fun, & manage to make mundane tasks like shopping into events simply by going together.  We bob around in the surf & show each other our finds like big kids on a treasure hunt.   IMPORTANT NOTE here:  I’ve been verbally groveling to my much loved real family, my Mom, trying to squeeze a visit out of her.  Maybe if I write it here, she’ll consider it?  (Shameless huckstering acknowledged.)



Mu, pondering her yard

If you’ve met me, you know I also count among my ‘family’ my delightful Tasmanian devil of a dog, Mu.  And you know how grateful I am for how she improves every day of life, as all our mutts do for all of us. 

 

I am thankful for the ridiculous bounty of nature here on the island & more particularly in my yard.  I was filling my watering cans from the overflowing cistern this morning (rain barrel is already brimming) & tromped around the wet grass to check produce progress.  Both little Carambola (starfruit) trees are chock full of waxy fruit in hues from chartreuse to pumpkiny orange.  The one that produces larger fruit also supports a water lemon vine (passion fruit family, small fuzzy fruit that look like lemons wearing scalloped green ‘hats’ (sepals or calyx?).  The pineapple plants are growing by leaps & bounds & the ones in the ‘nursery’ (potted, but not in the ground) are begging to be planted.  Four big bunches of various types of bananas & plantains are hanging, fat & happy & growing by the day.  And the Julie mango tree has a stray, off-season mango hanging there ripening (& no doubt beaconing stray horses that will hang over my fence & try to ‘prig’it, ie. grab & run). 

But the surprise of the morning was cherries!  I have been busy making jewelry & ornaments & obviously wasn’t paying attention to the giant Surinam Cherry bush below my porch.  I vaguely remember smelling some sweet something on the breeze one night when I was watering the orchids, but the source didn’t register at the time.  So there they were this morning, looking like little squishy red pumpkins.  One fell off in my hand as I was inspecting it, which is the test for ripeness.  If you have to tug to get the fruit free, it isn’t ready & for the most part isn’t edible.  Like a lot of tropical fruit, Surinam cherry has an acrid taste that only dissipates when the sugars overwhelm it, ie. when it is almost overripe.  The cherry bush is taller than I am & willowy, with an appearance a lot like what we called Bridal Wreath bush back in Maryland & West Virginia.  The white bloom isn’t as showy as Bridal Wreath, but the cherries are stunners.  The first one lived up to its promise, too, dissolving on my tongue with that unique flavor somewhere between that of a cherry & a cherry tomato.  Bliss!

After checking all the fruit, I looked at the ornamentals.  Three different white orchids with magenta throats are blooming in the frangipani & sugar apple trees.  Each presents a long spray with parallel rows of big blooms, like a white-gloved sommelier offering a great vintage.  It is even more wonderful when you realize these plants were ‘goners,’ & would surely have croaked if my friend hadn’t advised me to tie them in trees.  He says when an orchid is showing signs of stress it is time to give it what it really wants, which is to live in a tree.  (Wonder if that would work with people?)

And the last oomph from the yard as I got in my car & headed for my other job was that in addition to their usual prolific periwinkle trumpets of bloom, the other variety of Thunbergia against my kitchen door was in full glory.  Three enormous white flowers against the steroid-looking (all natural though, as I don’t water or fertilize those plants at all) giant dark green leaves on the vines.  Obviously those plants are as happy & well-suited to where they are planted as I am, & for that I remain, truly thankful.