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You have to love a country that has the word “happiness” in its Declaration of Independence. Granted, the Founding Fathers only gave us the right to pursue bliss. They wisely knew that happiness is elusive. But what better time than The Fourth of July to pursue some happiness?

Sadly, America has become like a married couple who hate each other and refuse to find any common ground.  They spend all their time together trying to demean, demoralize and dehumanize one other. Absolutely nothing good can come out of such a relationship or anything it touches.

The fear and hate mongers among us are predicting doom for America because of our huge national deficits. Being prudent with money, I don’t underrate the seriousness of this situation. But I will state with uncharacteristic certainty that America will not be ruined by deficits. If we fall from greatness, hatred will be our undoing.

Throughout history, bad economic times cause people to look for scapegoats. The poorest and least powerful always get the blame; after all, they are the easiest targets. Hatred and its sidekick, dysfunction, then unravel the fabric of society.

Searing as it was,The Great Depression did not destroy America. My parents’ generation was badly scarred, but they survived.  And I owe my life of economic stability to the lessons my parents gleaned from those dark days and imprinted on me. Those lessons did not include hating and ridiculing everyone that did not look or think like me.

Here is my survival plan for this glorious Fourth of July. I will view the exploding fireworks as symbols of hatred being blown to bits. I will remain hopeful that the USA will get back to the real business at hand: working together to form a more perfect union where happiness is at least a possibility for all.

The mint died. Those three word sum up our gardening abilities. How could two people who love plants so much have such tragically ungreen thumbs?

Nevertheless, our attempt to create a natural yard enters its fourteenth season with some glimmers of hope despite the empty spot the mint formerly occupied. More than three quarters of the prairie and meadow plants that we put in last summer have returned. Joe Pye Weed ( an excellent meadow plant despite its name) did take his own good time coming back, but one day he poked up his head. The milkweed patch is thriving thanks to my husband’s valiant efforts to remove the crown vetch that had invaded the milkweeds’ turf.

The biggest success and mystery is the return of the little blue stem. Several years back, we seeded the entire front patch with this lovely prairie grass. For some unknown reason, the grass came up in only one quarter of the place we planted it, but that quarter is gorgeous. We gladly will view this as the grass one quarter full as opposed to three quarters empty.

Buoyed by our horticultural successes, we visited The Flying Pig in Algoma, Wisconsin, to purchase more plants for the meadow. I am completely smitten by the Flying Pig. This lovely establishment combines an art gallery with a plant nursery, a truly inspired combination. If the ladies who run it charged admission, I would gladly pay. They have created an enchanted space, both indoors and out.

We loaded our car with plants recommended for their stalwartness with both lousy soil and bumbling gardeners. By the end of July and August we invite everyone up to see how our garden grows. Prairie plants peak at this time, but we don’t make any promises.

We northerners will come to the end of the sky road next Monday, June 21. The sun will have reached a certain telephone pole I see  from my kitchen window. From that point, it’s all downhill to the winter solstice.

The sunny news is that our star’s retreat goes in baby steps. I can handle one minute less of sun each day. It is decidedly best not to think of Shakespeare’s lines from Macbeth…

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time…

No, the proper course of action is to focus on getting the most out of each precious summer day. Each one of us defines “most” differently.  In our case,  eating every possible meal out of doors is high on the list as is taking daily beach walks. Getting out on the water is paramount as well. We are aiming for lots of canoe time and hope that most of it is spent in the boat. Our canoeing skills are not finely honed.

Every summer should also include some serious sand castle building. In addition, we are considering branching out into large beach sculpture . On a recent beach walk, we chanced on a wonderful assemblage constructed by an unknown beachcomber.  The temporal nature of this art form  appeals to us, and we are eager  to erect a fleeting landmark of our own.

Time will be made for summer indulgences such as fireworks, ice cream, blueberries, sunset watching, art fairs, road trips and Riesling. Summer is a siren, and we are not about to resist her call.

What are your summer joys?

My husband and I recently had the good fortune to be driving down Clark Street in Chicago just as a Cub’s game ended. Thousands of fans poured out of Wrigley Field spilling across the sidewalks into the street. I know nothing about baseball, but I do recognize a happy wave of humanity when I’m engulfed by it. The bars lining Clark all had their doors wide open. The night was warm, life was good and about to get better. We didn’t mind being slowed down by this joyful throng.

Logically, Cubs’ fans have scant reason to celebrate. Their team has not won a pennant for 102 years. The Cubs also have the unenviable distinction of enjoying the longest drought in American sport history….that includes the NFL, NBA and NHL.

Their home rises out of its city neighborhood, Wrigleyville,  like a beached whale. In fact, the field was built in 1914 for a team called the Chicago Whales. The Cubs have been playing in “The Friendly Confines” since 1916.

At the current time our country is awash in rancor and disillusionment. I believe Americans could learn some valuable lessons from Cubbies fans; such as, you don’t always have to be first to be happy. You don’t even have to win very  much to be happy. Longing for the dream is almost as good as having it come true. Patience is still a virtue.

The day after our Cub encounter, we were talking with friends from Chicago. “Did the Cubs win yesterday?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” was the reply.

The quest goes on.

Sometimes a gift isn’t. The most spectacular gift of this sort we ever received was a Volkswagen, one of the original ones.

My father-in-law, a mechanic, called from Arizona and told us he had restored a car for our teenage son. The car was a deal from some obscure third cousin in California. All we had to do was fly out from the Midwest and drive the VW home. My husband and son embarked with happy thoughts of their road trip home.

Thirty miles out of Tucson, a stop for a quart of oil was necessary. One hundred miles out of Tucson, a new passenger, a case of oil, was riding in the back seat. 2,100 miles later, my husband walked in our door and ruefully told me, “We can’t afford this car, and we can’t sell a gift.”

With regular fill-ups of cash, we managed to keep our son’s gift moving.

Then the situation took a more serious financial turn south. Our daughter was away at school but commuted forty miles from her apartment to the campus. (Don’t even ask why: love was involved.) She called to say that her junker car had broken down, and, since there is no public transportation in rural Wisconsin, immediate help was needed. We told her brother he would have to give his car, the gift from his grandfather, to Sis. He rose to the family emergency with total grace, and thus became carless. But not for long. Moved by his instant generosity, we bought him a small pick up truck so he, too, could get to school and work.

The VW was now 300 miles away from home in one of the coldest parts of the state. Despite the fact that the car had a beer tapper in place of a gear-shift knob, it did not enjoy living in the land of Leinenkugel beer. My husband soon became a telephone buddy with a very lucky mechanic in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin.

Three months before our daughter’s graduation, our little gift drove its last mile, causing us to lease a brand new car to get child #1 to the finish line.

Some families celebrate graduations. We celebrated our daughter’s move to Manhattan. Surely, no car would be necessary there.

For some unknown reason, this is not the only VW story in the Tooley family.We all seem to have some serious Volkswagen karma. I understand that our children’s generation is overwhelmed with school, work and parenting responsibilities. But I do hope that in good time they will add their own adventures to the Tooley VW chronicles.

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