I don’t remember when I first planted oregano in my yard. We moved here in 2002 and I started carving out the “island” in 2003, so it was probably 21 years ago?
The “bed” of oregano has gone through some changes over the years: choked with that pesky grass, fenced off from dogs and to keep it upright, and it’s current incarnation that is 10x the original plant. I didn’t bother to rein it in this summer, but I did get rid of (most) of the pestilence grass.
We don’t purchase dried oregano in jars. Sometimes, I cut a handful of sprigs before it blooms, hang them upside down to dry, and scrape the dry leaves into an old jar that still has the original label on it: “Oregano”. We use it fresh during the spring and summer months when we can step outside and clip what we need off the plant. By Autumn it is fading and come winter, only dead stalks remain that I cut down and compost.
In spring, the cycle begins again.
I find new plants growing everywhere in the yard: oregano is self-seeding. I pull it with the other weeds, savoring the aroma as I do. I could allow it to grow everywhere and some day when I am too old to do my weeding by hand, that is probably what will happen: it will grow around the peonies, the rosemary, the lavenders, and the evening primroses.
I wouldn’t mind and the pollinators would certainly benefit from the profuse tiny purple blooms. I wonder what oregano honey tastes like? Some honeybee keeper must know: as soon as it begins to bloom, the bed is covered with honeybees and other pollinators.
Our dogs (one at a time over the years) will stand with their noses deep in the aroma, snapping at whatever bees they see. They get stung and jump back, shaking the head furiously before wading back in to snap at another bee. Our mantra is, “Leave the bees alone <Ruger, Murphy, Harvey, Sadie>!” They leave, but they always return to the scene of the crime.
I wonder if the bees taste like honey or like a good Italian dish spiced generously with oregano?
I didn’t sleep well last night. I am currently sipping on a cup of coffee (the real stuff, not decaf) and waiting for the caffeine and acetaminophen to go to work. Lifting my right arm is difficult until the pain killer kicks in.
One week ago, on a warm Thursday morning, I set out to conquer some of the weeds that had started in my flower beds. I missed a good deal of blooms while I was away in Florida, so there is a great deal of dead-heading to be done as well. I dove right in and was making good progress around the largest flower bed. I did a little edging, pulled out errant evening primroses and thinned out their bed as well. I crawled under the Hawthorne and dug out some bothersome wood sorrel and a lot of errant oregano.
My oregano patch is large and unruly, but bees, wasps, and other pollinators love it. This time of year, the air around the oregano hums. But I only allow it to grow within its confines or, like the evening primroses, it would take over the entire yard and choke out all my other beautiful flowers and herbs. I believe this is what triggered the main body of the herb.
I stepped around my weed bucket to leave the area and move on when the oregano wrapped around my left foot. It wouldn’t let go and I was thrown forward. These things always happen in slow motion: My body tipping forward, my hands reaching ahead of me for the ground, my body twisting away from the dreaded oregano plant and the weeding pad looming up to catch me.
It looks harmless. Kindly, even.
I slammed into the arm of that with my armpit and the momentum of my top-heavy torso. BOOM! AHHH! I rolled over in agony, tears on the verge of flowing. My husband came running. I ran into the house and applied arnica.
But I am brave. I brushed it off, said I was all right, and proceeded to work some more in the garden, but away from the oregano now. Ungrateful herb! I worked for maybe half an hour before I realized my right arm was NOT beginning to feel better but was, in fact, hurting more. Of course, there was no bruise to see because: Arnica. But it sure FELT like a bruise throughout my armpit and into my right breast.
Ice. And – oh! I had hydrocodone hiding in the house, a remnant of breast cancer surgery that I never needed to use. I’m not saying the pain went completely away but it certainly eased off considerably. Until nighttime and bedtime. My arm and chest stiffened up, I couldn’t roll over, I could barely get myself back out of bed… You know the kind of pain that just dogs you? Yeah, that.
My husband drove me everywhere. I insisted on going to the big city wide yard sale and the art festival by the Oregon Trail Interpretive Center. I was fine, fine. We even stopped and had a beer at one of our favorite haunts (I was careful not to mix the meds). Then night came on again.
I started to worry: had I dislocated my shoulder? It didn’t look like it. I could use it. Visions of a doctor putting in back into place frightened me (more pain?!), but it was now obvious I had DONE SOMETHING. I convinced myself to go to the Urgent Care (rather, have my chauffeur drive me to the Urgent Care as I was now unable to hold the car door open long enough to get seated).
She poked and prodded gently. No, I hadn’t dislocated anything. Of course there was no bruise (Arnica). Nothing appeared to be broken but they didn’t have an x-ray tech available until Monday. She didn’t think anything WAS broken, however: she posited that I had cracked a rib.
And it all made sense. I’ve “been there done that” before. I cracked two ribs on a crate thirteen years ago, almost to the date. I know when because our son was visiting with his first born, and we celebrated Justin’s first birthday here. Justin just turned 14.
I didn’t go to the doctor. I had a stash of oxycontin left over from dental surgery. I knew that even an x-ray wouldn’t help because there is nothing the medical field can do for cracked ribs. You just have to suffer it out. It took nine weeks to heal.
The Urgent Care physician just nodded and smiled. “That’s pretty much what we have here. We could do an x-ray but it probably isn’t going to show anything beyond a cracked rib. I can prescribe some muscle relaxers to help you through the night.”
So now my house mocks me as the dirt, dust, and dog hair pile up. The garden is overrun with dead flower heads and weeds are bravely flourishing. I only travel places if someone else is driving. And sleep eludes me, especially when the dog feels the need to cuddle up against my back and prevent me from finding a more comfortable position. You move a seventy pound mutt in the middle of the night? HA!
I’m trying to learn how to do things left-handed, but it isn’t happening very quickly. I’ll dust and dust mop today – I can do those things with my left arm. The garden is just going to have to wait along with all my plans for the end of the summer.
I managed to type all this and sip my coffee. The acetaminophen is kicking in. Nice weeding weather outside teases me, but I know better. A cracked rib takes a long time to heal. And I am out of the good drugs and down to the Over-the-Counter ones. By my calculations (and prior experience) I have six to eight more weeks of this.
Jaci Dawn 