Care and Feeding

It is high summer, and that means there are more living things under my care. To be sure, it’s not like I have children, or even pets, but caring and feeding those things I love in my life requires energy.

Energy well spent.

I started thinking about this in my garden, where the tomatoes are running riot, and the herbs needed cutting back, and the black currants needed harvesting and, and, and… But then I thought about my winter friends, the spider plant on my desk, given to me by a dear friend, and the rye sourdough starter sulking in my fridge.

The spider plant is a beacon to me once the snow flies. She stays green and content, asking only for some light, to be watered, and, secretly, to be paid attention to. My sourdough starter languishes in hot weather — I don’t love baking when it’s 90 degrees out — waiting to return to the main stage of my life once sweater weather arrives.

But both will die if I don’t at least give them some of my life in their off seasons.

Miss Spider sits with me always, a constant reminder of generosity and patient growth. It’s easy to give her a little love, which mostly means water and a good workover a couple times a year to keep her happy in her pot.

The sourdough is different. She lives out of site and mind all too often. And in this book tour year, I have forgotten her more than once. I can be away for a week or two, and if I fail to care for and feed her, she can die or fester in a vaguely alcoholic funk.

But when she gets even a little love — a refresh of flour and water even a couple days each month — she thrives, even in the chilly confines of my refrigerator. Waiting until the day I need her to lift me up with a lovely loaf of rye, over which I slather homemade jellies and jams and crabapple butter.

I am sitting in my backyard as I write this, looking at the cardinal couple, the flock of finches, and yes, the gnawing rabbits, all living their lives in this little world I’ve created. Coneflowers and black-eyed susans and borage and bee balm bob in the breeze. Bumblebees buzz in droves among the squash flowers. My rhubarb still hasn’t flowered, and I think about harvesting some even now in late summer. I probably won’t, but I do think about it still.

My thoughts turn to my most recent stretch of my book tour.

There I reconnected with not only my 89-year-old mother, older sister and younger brother, but also old friends like Tony and Nate and Alan — men who have shown me kindness and understanding for many years. I also reconnected with readers who have shown me such humbling loyalty that it is a joy to see them whenever I have a new book out. You know who you are: many are reading this right now.

I also think of the new friends, like Jesse and Joe and Gabe and David, whose friendship helped make this stretch of the tour a success. Each of these friendships are like a new sourdough, or a seedling: growing, strengthening, but still fragile.

All of these relationships, old and new, familial and friend, lover and colleague, need care and feeding. And I don’t mean that in a clinical or cynical way.

I once had a conversation with a friend, a native Minnesotan, about a concept that seemed odd to me at the time — the concept of “too many friends.” I’ve heard, on more than one occasion, an Upper Midwesterner say something to the effect of, “I have enough friends.” As an East Coast guy this is an alien concept. My stepfather Frank, so pivotal to my upbringing, once said very seriously, “You can’t have too many friends. You want your funeral to be packed.”

That precept still lives within me, but I am growing to understand the Minnesota Way a bit more. I am realizing that real friendships, the kind where you can come to a person, spill your heart’s closest secrets and expect help and understanding without judgment, require energy far beyond the casual cameraderie that Frank spoke of. So yeah, I can see how a person could be topped up on the number of other humans he or she can expend that energy on.

I also realize that those humans can have seasons, like Miss Spider and the sourdough starter. You can have summer friends and winter friends, for example. Or deep friendships that take a breather for a while, especially in times of big shifts for one or both. You two may be quiet for a time, but not forever quiet.

All it takes in those interims is a little care and feeding. A check in. A warm conversation. A little “how are you holding up?” where you really, actually listen. When the season of your relationship shifts, watch that dough rise or the plant bloom. And smile. Because you’ve nurtured something special.