The Accidental (Spinner): We Ride as One

Those are the words painted on the wall of the spin studio in my gym, O2Fitness. Each letter is approximately six feet high.

How did I even get into a spin studio? I was shamed into it, by the instructor, whom I happen to adore. Turns out, through casual gym conversation, she interned for my eldest brother (now deceased) decades ago so we have ties that go way back. Her “cuteness” either expands or evaporates in the cycle studio, depending upon your point of view. She claps, she cajoles, she barks, she motivates. But whatever she does, she got me on a bike, fitted me to the bike, and got me through my first spin class some three months ago. Now I am almost addicted.

I say almost addicted because I am not ready to make the full commitment. That means I have bought the shorts with the padded bottom — I call them my “diaper” pants. They really make the spinning bicycle much more comfortable and keep you from flopping around on the seat. But I am not yet willing to make the investment in clip shoes, which many class members swear by, claiming they help you “pull up” on the pedals. There are real reasons for my reticence, and those reasons will become evident in future posts. But for now, I am a happy spinner.

My goal for the first class was simply to stay upright on the bike for the 50-minute duration of the class (plus I warm-up about five minutes prior to the start of class). I did not want to embarrass myself by either fainting or vomiting. Proud to say that I was and have remained successful!

In subsequent classes, I have greatly extended the length of time that I ride in a standing position (I can now stand for a good three minutes vs. three seconds) as well as the speed and the exertion with which I pedal. I am not good, and likely will never be, at the rapid “jump series,” where you are up and down out of your seat every two counts. Most of the class is far more advanced than I am, but I know that doesn’t matter. It is my ride, my bike, my class, and I am damn proud.

Those who are closest to me probably already understand the source of my pride. In the late 1980s, my late husband and I both bought bicycles. He never got off his bicycle, and I rode mine once before selling it a year later in a garage sale. He became a “master cyclist” in my opinion, pedaling an average of 5,000+ miles per year, including a 1995 cross-country ride in 21 days.

In the end, though, his cycling was his demise, at the hands of a hit-and-run driver near our home in Connecticut. So for me to get on a bicycle now, six years after his death, is an act of courage I did not know I possessed.

I am proud of myself. I feel strong in ways that I never imagined. Thanks, Margaret, for the dare…

The Accidental (Gardener), : Out of My Hardy “Comfort Zone”

My family and I spent 15 years in Connecticut, which for the most part, were fabulous years in terms of quality of life, friendships made, education for the boys, and careers. (The not-so-fabulous part of our life there will be the subject of future post(s).) And it was in Connecticut that my focus began to expand beyond houseplants to the great outdoors, which is somewhat ironic considering the harshness of New England winters. But perhaps it was that harshness that makes one so attuned to the first sprigs of plants coming from the ground – often through inches of snow – the first buds on trees, and the first blooms. 

There were other factors as well that contributed to my growing interest in flowering shrubs and even vegetables: Flowers grew in Connecticut that simply didn’t grow in Texas, where we had spent the previous 22 years. (At that point, I had never heard of the USDA Plant Hardiness Zone Map, much less given any thought as to the difference that temperature, soil, acidity, wildlife, and numerous other factors contribute to successful gardening! Remember, I am an “accidental gardener.”) Jasmine grew like weeds along the roadways, creating bright patches of yellow blooms around every curve. Hostas, hydrangeas, and cherry blossoms also thrived up there, plants that I grew to love but did not recognize from Texas. (In Texas, I was besotted by crepe myrtles, which also flourish here in the Southeast.) 

And then there was my best friend whose idea of therapy was to expand her flower beds, annually, if not more often, by hand. Her favorite weekend activity was to be in her backyard, spade in hand, expanding a 30-foot bed by a few inches. She then bought plants, moved plants, split plants, planted bulbs. Her back deck was a frenzy of color every summer, usually blanketed by large hibiscus trees and pots of herbs. Her love of gardening simply rubbed off on me. 

So I started along the back wall of the garage of our center hall colonial. I would buy the plants and place them, but generally our gardener would dig the holes for me. That was no easy task because our yard, and most of the town in which we lived, was built on extremely rocky soil, hence the rock walls that surrounded our properties. Little by little, I created a nice flower bed. 

I am also convinced that as soon as my hostas and day lilies would emerge each year, the deer sent an email statewide. Because the very next morning, every bloom would simply be eaten away, front and back yards. I have successfully planted nine hostas at my southern home, and am pleased to say that deer do not seem to be the same level of nuisance in this neighborhood, though I know they are in other nearby neighborhoods. The bane of my gardening existence here are the squirrels. 

It was during the Connecticut years that I wanted to try my hand at vegetables as well. Needless to say, I was a dismal failure at whatever I tried – tomatoes, squash, zucchini, etc. It became a standard family joke that I would invest some $200 per growing season and fail to get a single tomato for my efforts, even when I bought a plant already covered with blossoms. 

Gratefully, that has changed to some degree in the Southeast, as you will soon learn. I have had a modicum of success growing vegetables here, particularly herbs, lettuces and tomatoes, due in large part to the abundant rainfall and temperate climate. More to follow on my path to becoming an organic “farmer” …  

The Accidental (Blank): A Gardener and a Whole Lot More

This blog post, originally to be named The Accidental Gardener, is at least 18 months overdue. In its earliest iteration, the blog was to be devoted to gardening, in both its physical and metaphorical sense. My love affair with plants began when I started graduate school in 1975; it has ebbed and flowed through the decades; and only in the past three years has it successfully culminated in the production of an actual vegetable. Hence, the accidental gardener.

However, I have learned in recent years, that we often fall into unexpected roles – some desirable, some absolutely undesirable. And it is how we handle those roles that define how we continue to grow and nurture relationships with others, even later in life.

It has become increasingly evident to me that I morphed into much more than an accidental gardener. I have grown into an accidental cook (I was never any good before), gym rat, a spinning enthusiast (2019), widow (2013), newlywed (2016), volunteer (my beagle is a therapy dog), a devoted (jigsaw) puzzler, art collector, and more.

In short, I have become an accidental gardener and a whole lot more. As this blog meanders in the posts ahead, I will share some of these journeys with those who choose to read and share with me. I hope you will find some humor in them, and when the situation merits, perhaps a little life lesson.

Now back to the beginning – why the early fascination with house plants? It was simple, really.

In 1975, I was a graduate student in journalism at the University of Missouri- Columbia, living in a studio apartment. With 52 plants! Most, by necessity, were small enough to fit on a windowsill.

But here’s the thing. Whenever I had a bad day, or faced a big paper, or an exam, or just needed cheering up, I could make myself feel better with a plant, often bought at the grocery store, for $.99 or $1.99. I distinctly remember a potted ivy in a small replica wishing well – that was probably a $2.99 splurge.

Those plants gave me something to nurture. I watered them; I pruned them; I gave them to friends. I talked to them. They took me out of myself – out of a one-person pity party that is so easy for all of us to fall into, if even for a short time – and gave me something to care for. And something to share.

My love for plants never abated. My first house in Arlington, TX, in 1979, had a greenhouse, though I soon discovered it was far too big and far too hot for a hobbyist like myself. Many years later upon moving to New England, we spent one month in an apartment before moving into our home. The first item I bought was a plant – a ponytail palm that is still with me in 2019. It has since been joined by a much larger ponytail palm.

Then why today, of all days, do I finally feel compelled to start this blog? I kept thinking back to that studio apartment in Columbia, MO, and the types of plants I purchased. I was good with succulents then, but I am not good with them now. I remember that I bought a small plant with dark green striped leaves (that resembled a watermelon) called a peperomia, and that I had not seen one of those plants in decades.

Until today. At Home Depot. For $12.98. I must buy it.

(If interested, much information is available about the easy-to-grow plant. Either google it or simply start with Wikipedia:

Peperomia (radiator plant) is one of the two large generaof the family Piperaceae, with more than 1000 recorded species. Most of them are compact, small perennialepiphytes growing on rotten wood. More than 1500 species have been recorded, occurring in all tropical and subtropical regions of the world, though concentrated in Central America and northern South America. A limited number of species (around 17) are found in Africa.)

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