Gardening shmardening...

Back in April, I shared with you the story of the garden the kids and I made.

I shared with you then how previous attempts at gardens had resulted in the exact opposite of a garden, as gardens have fruits and vegetables and living things in them.

But this garden was to be different. It would thrive because:

1. We were doing a raised bed, because everyone knows that elevating your soil four inches off the ground makes for scrumptious food.

2. I added garden timbers, because everyone knows surrounding your elevated soil with wood makes food more healthy.

3. I planted a diverse selection - broccoli, watermelon, green beans and cucumbers - because diversity is key to any garden, as any farmer will tell you. If you ask him to tell you that.

Well, here we are, in the heart of the harvest season, while vegetable gardens are churning out baskets full of bounty from the soil. And in my basket you will find...

...wait. Before we get to that, let me remind you that it is has been very hot. And we were gone for a week back in June. And one of the timbers did fall, and was later co-opted to be part of a fort. And elevated soil is incredibly comfortable if you are an excitable Dachshund looking for a nice, shady napping spot. I'm just saying we need to keep these things in mind.

OK, so we got nothing. If we were frontiersmen, we would have had to become the Donner Party to survive. I mean not squat. The only thing that even remotely hinted at growing were the green beans, which popped out as these pathetic looking little weeds, two of which sprouted these embarrassing little green nubs that looked more like Mike and Ike candies than green beans. They withered away after a few days. Even the squirrels and birds didn't bother to poach them. Upside of my garden - think of all the time, money and effort I save on not having to worry about anything stealing my stuff. No sense putting fences or screens up for something that's not there. As a courtesy, I suppose I could direct the critters to my neighbors' successful gardens, which includes anti-critter investments.

The kids were disappointed in the outcome of the garden. My wife told me that the location was the main reason why, as it was in the back corner of the yard and didn't get watered enough. I explained that I did water it some, but any time that I didn't water it was not the fault of location. I can lug a hose the extra 20 feet. The real problem, as I explained to her, was angering the Gardening Gods, who punished us by withholding nourishments for our crops. I can only assume it was past indiscretions against fruit and vegetable seeds.

So the kids are now looking to the fall harvest. I have explained to them that (a) it's not the best time to plant and (b) we're pretty terrible at it. But they are convinced the next time they plant will be the time the harvest springs forth. Bless their little optimistic hearts...

I am hoping I can distract them from their desire to plant another garden. I think the message has been received. Gardening just isn't my thing. And, hey, I'm not alone. Groceries and produce stands have long existed for those of us without the desire or ability to grow our own food. I think I'll just be content getting my food the traditional way. And I certainly know how I'm getting my fall harvest. And it's not gonna be frontier style...

Stinging situation

What did we learn this week?

We learned that my car can go far beyond the empty fuel line, with room to spare.

We learned that a miniature space shuttle, if placed in the appropriate place in the hallway, can bring down a grown man in the middle of the night.

But most importantly, we learned to look inside the waders before you put them on.

I learned the latter lesson on a biology field trip over the weekend. We were going to check some traps in a pond, hoping to find some turtles, fish, etc.

There are some waders by the pond, hanging upside down on some pegs in order to keep critters from crawling inside. This is a good idea. Critters cannot, in fact, climb inside. They can, it turns out, fly inside.

I was the one tasked with putting on the waders. Someone remarked that there could be critters inside the waders. Pshaw, I remarked, as the waders are upside down.

I grabbed the first pair, and realized they were hip waders designed to fit the feet of, by my estimate, a newborn. I tried the second pair of hip waders, and realized these were slightly larger, designed to shod a three-year-old.

I turned to the other waders and found a pair that appeared to be my size. These were thigh waders, with a fancy little strap that would hold them securely to your leg.

I kicked off my tennis shoe and stuck my left leg into the wader, sliding my foot into place. And I then set the world record for fastest time ever to remove a wader when I felt an incredible stinging pain in my calf and the bottom of my foot. As I was jumping around and doing a one-legged hop to a nearby bench, everyone was asking me what was wrong. "ACK!" I believe was the reply.

When I got to the bench, I pulled off my sock. I looked down at my calf and saw a small red welt, and then saw a similar one on my foot. Someone picked up the wader, turned it upside down and began shaking it. Out flew one wasp. And then another. And then another. I did not like those wasps.

After the entire wasp family had exited the wader, we turned it over and looked inside. There, about halfway down in absolutely clear sight, was a wasp's nest about the size of my fist. I feel fairly confident that had I looked, I would have seen the nest. Granted, a wasp might have flown out and stung me in my in the face, so perhaps I was better off.

For the rest of the day, my foot and calf were quite sore. They both developed large red spots around them, but they were really never more than an annoyance. Or, as I told my wife, the worst pain anyone has ever suffered. Ever.

The worse of the two stings was definitely the one on the bottom of my foot. If you have an enemy who is in dire need of physical harm, I highly recommend a wasp sting to the arch of the foot. It will send a message. That message: "I hate you. A lot."

I was able to make it through the rest of the field trip, stopping on occasion to lean up against a tree and quietly groan in agony. But that was mainly when my wife was around, just to remind her how bad the pain was.

When we got home, my wife boldly took on the job of looking at my foot - which had been tromping around the swamp on a hot summer day - and examining it. I have no idea if the wasp that stung me is the kind that leaves its stinger in you, but when she poked around for a few minutes with some tweezers, it did suddenly feel better.

So I did learn a valuable lesson, and I will never again think waders are secure just because ground dwelling critters can't get in them. You can have nasty bugs that want to hurt you. Of course, it could be worse. It could have been a miniature space shuttle.

Terminator Mom

My son learned a valuable lesson this weekend: Don't call your mother's bluff.

This particular bluff: He was acting up in the pool, as his mother sat deckside, fully dressed. "You won't come in the pool," he said. "You've got clothes on."

Wrong call, dude.

The event happened at a recent party we were having. We had some friends and family over, and everyone was having a fine time. Parker was in the pool with some of the other kids as my wife and a friend sat poolside. Parker had a toy that shoots water. Now, we have some standard rules in the pool: No running, no jumping close to the edge, no teaching the cat to swim, etc. Another rule is that you do not splash people who are not in pool attire. This rule grew from my summer ritual of coming home from work and sitting by the pool while the kids swim. It was originally called the "YOU GOT MY CROSSWORD WET!!!" rule, but my wife and I have since expanded it to anyone sitting poolside wearing street clothes.

So Parker thought he would break the rule, and started shooting water at our friend.

"Parker," my wife said, "do not spray her with water."

He got a devilish smile. Water again. "Parker..." The tone was changing.

Splash, again. "Parker, do it again and I will come in there. And you will NOT like it if I come in there."

And then he made the mistake. He called her out. He gave her a "no you won't" line of defiance.

My wife calmly stood up, took her shoes and sunglasses off, and proceeded to the steps of the pool. And down she went. She marched into the pool and went across the shallow end. Parker stood frozen. She approached him, took the water cannon, and proceed to fling it out of the pool. She then marched out of the pool, as Parker began to melt into a combination of fear, sorrow and a smidge of awe. As one partygoer described it: "He was so freaked out that the Terminator Mom wasn't thwarted by the pool as a barrier."

My wife emerged from the pool, dripping wet, casually grabbed a beach towel from the fence, and calmly strolled toward the house. As she walked in, she looked over at me. "Deal with him." And in she went.

I went to the edge of the pool. "Come. Here. Now."

He was there quickly. His lip was quivering, and we was about to start crying. "What is going on?" I asked.

"Am I grounded?"

"What?" I asked.

"Mom said I was grounded. Is it true?"

The look in his eyes told me this - he had no clue what grounded meant. But he was awfully scared of it.

I told him he needed to get out of the pool, go upstairs and apologize to his mother. "I'm not going to get to go swimming again, am I?" he said. Tears were welling up, and he was pretty much painting a scenario that was about 10 times worse than worse case.

"Just get out of the pool," I said.

He went and sat in a chair, his towel wrapped around him, his lips quivering, and looking to the ground. "Parker," I said, "you need to go inside and talk to your mother." He looked at me with one of the best looks a child looking to get out of trouble has ever given.

Shortly thereafter, he decided to head inside, and had even decided on his own sentence. When we got upstairs, he gave a tearful apology, and he offered up a self-imposed swimming ban. In his apology, it became clear that the splashing in the pool was meant as a fun little game. And he now realizes that when Mom says "Game over," it's game over.

After his exile was concluded, he was a bit of a momma's boy for the rest of the evening, trying to curry favor with the woman he had wronged. It was no harm in the long run, and he learned the most important lesson of all. Mom can swim. And she'll come after you...