Running in the Rain with Lobsters

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I’m the kind of person who gets caught in the rain a lot. I don’t know if it’s related to some sin I committed in a previous life, or perhaps a lack of proper obeisance or ritual in this one. All I know is, the weather gods are out to get me.

            So we’re in Denali National Park, AK, and we’re trying to get in a hike, but the weather is saying, “Dare ya.” it’s been thundering and grumbling all day, punctuated by brief bursts of fat raindrops. Our raingear is, of course, back in our room.

When we visit the park service’s sled dog kennels, the thunder intensifies. During the sled dog demo, the sky shakes loose enough raindrops to drive some viewers out of the stands. We hold our ground, but I’m convinced that we’ll be drenched before we get back to the bus.

            But, no. After a bit of bluster, the rain backs off again. So, finally, we head into the woods, but by now it’s getting late. After just a mile, we’re chased back to the Visitor’s Center by the threatening weather, the voracious mosquitoes, and the risk that we’ll miss the last bus.

            Back at the lodge, we decide to cross the road to buy provisions at the little grocery there. I worried, though, that, having made it through the day more or less dry, we were going to be caught in a downpour between the store and the lodge.  At least, that way, the suspense would be over.

            But, no. We make it back to the lodge unscathed. Still, I am uneasy. This is not the way things go for me. I can’t shake the notion that the weather gods are elbowing each other, snorting with suppressed glee. Wait till you see this!

            We go to the restaurant next door for dinner, and find there’s a forty-five minute wait. The hostess hands us one of those restaurant pagers, inexplicably shaped like a lobster. Who knew lobsters were native to Alaska?

I weigh the lobster in my hand. “If I go back to my room and do some work, will the pager work in there?” I ask.

The hostess nods, so I carry the lobster back to my room, accessed by an open-air second floor gallery. It’s a stiflingly hot night in Alaska, where air conditioning is non-existent. Many of my neighbors have their doors open. It resembles a big-city tenement in July, populated by confused tourists.

Lightning blazes, thunder crashes, and the skies finally open up. The rain comes down in torrents, and at that moment, the lobster goes off. In fact, it has a hissy fit.

Now, most of these restaurant pagers are content with flashing lights and vibration. This one does all that. Plus, It literally roars.

So I run out the door of my room, carrying the roaring lobster, and streak down the gallery, pelted by rain, past a dozen open doors. The occupants of the other rooms gape at me, an apparition drenched in rain, reeking of mosquito spray and sweat, clutching a roaring lobster. And the gods laughed.

Whatever it was I did, weather gods, I am so sorry.

How Bookstores Are Like Greenhouses

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So the other day I’m wandering the aisles of a large garden center—you know, one of those places that sells knick-knacks and bric-a-brac, clothing and scented candles and  patio furniture (always 50% off) alongside the garden tools. I have a specific list of plants I’m looking for—this new garden was in a partly-shaded, often boggy spot, and I did my homework ahead of time.

The place was huge, with what seemed like acres of plants in color-coordinated pots. Still, I wasn’t having much success. I couldn’t quite fathom the organization of the perennials, and I couldn’t locate anything on my list.

While I was poking through the irises, seeking Siberica, a young man begins scooping them up and loading them on a large cart. “Hey,” I say, “where are you going with those irises?”

“We’re putting them on that table over there,” he says, pointing.

“Oh. Is it okay if I look through them?”

He shrugs. “I guess so.”

I continue the hunt—Germanica, Germanica, dwarf Germanica. He continues loading the cart. Finally, I say, “Do you know if you have any Siberian iris?”

            “I’m new,” he says. “Let me get somebody.”

            He comes back with another young man in tow, bearded, a little scruffy-looking. He pulls out two tired-looking Siberian iris for my inspection.

            “I was hoping for white,” I say. “I have a lot of purple.”

            “These are the only ones we carry,” he says, with a bitter smile. “You can have any color you want, as long as it’s purple.”

            “Never mind,” I say. “There are some other things I’m looking for.” I show him my list.  “Belamcanda lily?”

            He looks at the list, looks at me, leans in close. “You know, if you want to get something nice, you should go to Bremec’s,.”

            Bremec’s is a small, locally-owned greenhouse, and a bit of a drive.

            “They have a great selection of hard-to-find plants, and they’ll be in better shape,” he confides. “See, around here, all the plants are the same.”

            I blink at him, confused.

            He glances around, then says, “All plants need the same watering schedule, the same light, the same soil and fertilizer, know what I mean?”

            “Ah,” I say, “well, that’s where I made my mistake. I thought I needed to find plants that like wet feet. And here I come to find out that any plant will do.”

            His lips twitch. “Exactly.”

“Well,” I say,” thanks for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, turning away. I’m sure he means that, literally. I wonder how much longer he’ll last.

            It reminded me of that scene in the movie, Miracle on 34^th Street, where the Macy’s  Santa tells the mom where she can find the toy her son wants at a good price. And it’s not at Macy’s.

            I’ve been in bookstores, too, where everything comes down from corporate, from what books they carry to how they are shelved. Where the booksellers—who know their clientele—are obviously frustrated. It doesn’t have to be that way. Bookstores are a lot like greenhouses, in that many of the people who choose to work there aren’t hoping to get rich. They do it out of love—a love of books. And the chance to spend time with others who share that passion. So imagine what it’s like to find yourself working for people who don’t.

            Those lovers of books and plants and art and music and fine foods can the brick-and-mortar stores’ biggest assets—they are the ones who understand that books, and plants, and people are not all alike.