Is This You? Inanimate Things

Communication. There seem to be two basic forms of communication: nonverbal and verbal. I tend to use the verbal. A lot. My verbal orifice—my mouth—tends to get my happy self into just enough hot water. More often than not, what comes out of my mouth is exactly the thought that has formed in my brain. But. Yes, a thoughtfully and artfully created “but.” Sometimes, as the saying goes, our mouths are put into gear when the parking brake should be fully engaged. That—that is how I learned the art of swallowing words. An uncomfortable but human part of being a grown-up.

Happily, though, there are times I can say anything that is upstairs in my brain. Like talking to plants.

It was sometime in the 1960s when the world was changing fast and furiously. Freedom of expression was beginning to be a thing. Think it, say it, do it was the thought process that gave freedom to a lot of things. Just ask anyone who may have attended Woodstock—or nearly any concert. Then the 1970s followed, and things might have calmed down a bit. Not a whole lot, but a bit.

One thing that did come about during that time was the notion that talking to our plants was seen as “okay,” if not even beneficial to the plants. It went so far as to study the effect of music on plants. Oh yes! Orchids liked classical. Tulips, elevator music. Daisies? Well, rock and roll gave them a lift. Bunk? Maybe.

Talking, from what I remember, may not have done anything for the plants; however, it certainly let some of us get things off our chests—without repercussions. Like having your very own shrink, a plant listened to mountains of information coming out of our mouths that had been bubbling up in our brains. And the price was right! Free.

Talking to plants is not where I started to go with this story. I need to pick up my roots and move along.

Living the widow life as I do—and rurally—I have found myself talking to me. I like me most of the time, so I listen to what I have to say. I’ve discovered something. Well, actually, I’ve done this thing for a while, I have just finally recognized it. I talk to more than my plants. It is sad to say, I have even found myself feeling feelings for some things.

Here’s what happened.

My friends and I are unique. Not more unique than you are, I am sure. We just have some unique, well, proclivities. We all seem to talk to our things.

Pets, of course. It goes far beyond, “Fluffy, what did you do?” My vehicles have names and personalities. My plants know that I am not a plant person, so they give it the ol’ college try even though, under my care, they die.

Then this happened, and I am beginning to question if I have gone too far.

I use paper plates and bowls often. Seems silly to wash one fork and one plate when I can just toss my fine Chinet dinnerware into the trash.

I was going to make myself a bowl of instant oatmeal. I opened my cupboard to grab a paper bowl. These are not your first-class paper products. I buy in bulk, so my eatery items have a “one and done” feel to them. I grabbed one and got two. I separated them, and the second one fell to the counter.

Now, here’s where it gets weird—even for me.

I said to the bowl, “Hey there, buddy, wait your turn. This guy,” the one on top that I still had in my hand, “has been waiting in the pile. He’s next.” Then I picked up number two—the line cutter—put it back on the pile. To wait its turn.

I actually thought the little stinker was cutting in line, and I told it so.

AARRGGHH. I have finally gone off the White Cliffs of Dover and am headed toward the ocean below!

Does this happen to my friends? I wondered.

I asked a very close gal pal. One that wouldn’t call in the guys in the white coats on me. Surprise! It’s not just me. Whew!

I have gone from talking to people, then to plants—that I know can feel my moods and react. Slowly, but they do react.

To telling my truck Buddy, “Good job,” when he rears up as I pass the slow-moving Corvette. I can feel Buddy smiling. Just like the happiness that bowl felt. Even though it ended up in the trash after the oatmeal.

Ah, the life of inanimate objects.

Trina lives in Diamond Valley, north of Eureka, Nevada. She loves to hear from readers. Email her at [email protected]

Really!