This Year's Garden Has Been Berra, Berra Good To Me

Anyone old enough or versed enough in tv trivia should remember the tag line of comedian Garrett Morris' "legendary" baseball character, Chico Escuela, from the old (classic & best) Saturday Night Live, as referenced in this post's title.  Well, this season it applies more aptly to my garden than ever before. I don't know whether it was the uncanny - for New Jersey anyway - frigid and snow-covered winter which helped to provide a natural mulch for my perennials or that after all these years my faithful and laborious additions of homemade compost have finally struck "black" gold in my naturally sandy (aka: cruddy) soil. But, my garden has never been so down-right, upright, bee-ooo-tiful! **Insert huge, shit-eating grin here** I've also never - EVER - seen such ginormous, 1950's-nuclear-monsterized worms in my life! Without the old fish story analogy, I've yet to dig trowel into the soil for the simplest of tasks and not had a worm the size of a garter snake slither out from that recently unearthed...uh....earth.

Plants have bloomed that haven't bloomed since I first put them in.  There has been a lot of "Oh, so that's what you're supposed to look like"-moments.  I was particularly pleased by my peony's surprising  presentation of three gorgeous blooms.  Granted, only three.  But when you consider there was nary a hint of one in the five years since it was planted - and sported only one even at that time -  then three is two more than I've ever seen on it.  My Graham Thomas' Unnamed yellow rose also didn't immediately succumb to blackspot and produced not only a healthy abundance of foliage but so many fat, cushy and fragrant blooms that I felt extravagant enough to cut several and bring them inside leaving the plant still brimming with creamy, yellow globes.


Yes, Virginia, it's been mucho, mucho long since I've made a post here. All's I can say is that my garden has presented me with such a plethora of goodies and lushness it's like a starving, chocolate hound let loose in a Godiva consignment shop. In other words: so much to consume....so little time and an endless desire to gorge myself with no regard for the inevitable stomach ache aftermath. In my 'garden gorging' scenario, however, back and neck spasms and a day or two hugging the heating pad are usually the inevitable aftermaths.

But despite the gorging,  I must give credit where credit is due (in this case it's The Good Lord). I've mercifully been spared having to suck back too many Advils and the heating pad has remained cool for the most part.

Hence, there's been little time - or desire - to spend inside on this clickity-clack thing typing about my garden when I could be outside IN it. The only reason I'm posting today is because the thunderclaps ushered me inside and while rain has never dampened (oooh, pun) my spirits or work ethic in the garden, thunder and lightening and gardening in the nearby shadows of 50-foot very swayable and precarious oaks does have a way of making me think twice about doing just one more eeeny, weeny little bit of moving, planting, digging or you name it out there.

Coincidentally, rain (the gentle, steady good kind) has also been "Berra, Berra" good to me this year. It's enabled me to successfully accomplish some major transplants that otherwise would have had to wait either for cooler weather or depend upon the dictates of the weatherperson's precipitation prognostications, which aren't exactly consistently reliable to say the least.  Then there's always the mad dash outside at a moment's rainy notice.  Fortuitously, I always keep a spare trowel and sturdy, waterproof gloves tucked in a pocket of my gardening-designated rainslicker for just such unexpectedly opportune transplanting-moments.  Even then, I usually wind up only being able to move one pathetic, small thing and have to baby that under shade cloth with daily drenchings to even hope for its survival. Nope, again giving credit to the RainMan In The Heavens, I've literally had days to plan, plant, and move again. Who, me? Move plants more than once? "Bwaaahahahaaaaaa!!!"

I suppose with all this bragging should come even more pictures to put my garden money where my mouth is. So try this slideshow on for size.  It's but a mere drop in the bucket...but I wouldn't want to overwhelm you with such abundant bee-ooty.  **Insert yet another shit-eating grin here**. 
Mouse over picture for "Help" menu  and/or use your computer's "next" arrow to advance

More Snow Reflections

Sitting at my den window last night, I watched yet another layer of flakes whitewash the already existing mounds of snow deposited by three previous snowstorms that blanketed our area over the past four weeks. Dubbed "February Fury" by The Weather Channel, this latest chapter in the ongoing saga of "And You Still Don't Believe Global Warming?" began dropping its fat, wet flakes shortly before midnight the night before. After several starts and stops, the ultimate flake tally two days later would be upward of another ten or so inches.

Earlier that morning I had hurried outside just after my husband left for work around 5:15am and before the snow became too heavy. I knew at least one of the feeders was empty and three of the suet holders were either totally barren or contained pathetic dregs of lard-encrusted corn, seed and peanut pieces. After filling the feeders and attempting (operative word there being "attempting") to shovel some of the heavy, wet snow from around a few of the various feeding stations I'd set up throughout the front and back gardens, I precariously managed to fend my way around already existing piles of frozen snow that outlined the greenhouse so I could stretch up with my broom and knock off the four or so inches of freshly-fallen wet snow which threatened to collapse at least one side of the structure. After the first brutal nor'easter in January knocked down one of the internal struts, one side has been under constant "supportive vigilance" in the hopes of preventing the greenhouse's all-out-collapse on that compromised side. We'd zipped the already taut poly weave constructed greenhouse tightly closed before December. As the winter progressed, bringing colder and colder temperatures that threatened any remaining elasticity in that material, we became increasingly reluctant to try and unzip the thing in order to reattach the support for fear we wouldn't be able to zip and close the structure again. So until a good spring thaw, we just assumed a constant greenhouse-snow watch and stood ready with a very long-handled broom.

Forewarned being sometimes forearmed, I made a dash to the farm supply store the day before when the weather predictions seemed immanent. The frenetic pre-blizzard antics of my feathered and furry friends alerted me to stock up on seed, corn and of course their favorite: shelled, halved peanuts. Unfortunately, I was down to my last four suet cakes, and was unable to get to my usual haunt that tocks them in bulk and at much lower cost than the Big Box stores. Besides, I fear that when I can get there early next week, they may already have cleared their shelves of suet and other winter stores in preparation for spring surplus. Try explaining seasonal inventory control to claw and paw-tapping impatient, hungry critters! It's not business with them...it's personal.

I thought the two 24-cake boxes I'd purchased before Christmas would at least carry me through till the really frigid and snowy weather subsided. I think this is another case where I should have heeded the weather prognostications of Punxatawney Phil and the extra thick coat and fluffier-than-usual tails of my resident squirrels rather than the slick t.v. weathercasters. Nature is always a better indicator of future climatic conditions. Just ask any organic gardener.

The snow tapered off a bit when I began this, but has picked up once again now along with freight-train-roaring winds. This is when the beauty of the silent snow fall not only elevates in decibel levels but increases the intensity of my worry for the resident critters. While they can usually ferret out protective quarters in even white-out snowstorms, the frigid, 50-mile-an-hour winds are decidedly more daunting and threatening to their safety. I knew that the next day would find me on garden reconnaissance in what I hope will be an unfruitful search for any casualties of the storm. The thought of leaving anything that once graced and shared my gardens to lie lifeless and forgotten on drifting snowbanks is unacceptable to me. If my garden's flora are dignified with a protective covering of soil, albeit frozen, then I owe that same reverence and care to its fauna.

The phone rang as darkness turned my window's clear view to a blackened mirrored glass. It was my husband reassuring me that his commute home was thus far uneventful and he'd most likely be home safe and at his usual time. I'm always calmed when he calls on nights like this. He knows I worry.

I hope the critters have a safe haven tonight as well.

"Rumors Of My Death..."

"...have been greatly exaggerated", to quote Mark Twain.

Like the infamous Pennsylvania groundhog, Punxatawney Phil, or the chipmunks who cohabit my garden along with my resident perennials, we've all been hibernating for the winter. The onset of my dormancy, however, began long before winter's official solstice and may very well prove to be more protracted than Phil's, the chipmunks' or my garden's perennials'.


Frosty white blankets shroud the garden benches that await my return.









For the duration and until my gardening spirit is motivated to rest upon those benches once again and seek solace, respite and renewal of hope with Spring's promise, my only outdoor forays consist of the care, feeding and enjoyment of my faithful feathered and furried garden charges who struggle to prevail through winter's and Life's harsh realities and encourage me to do the same.

To proffer another quote, this time from Monty Python: "She ain't dead.  She's just restin'."

Ultimate Interactive Online Garden Planner

If you're looking for a true interactive garden planner, then go to The Garden Planner. It's produced online by Gardener's Supply Company. You know, the outfit who probably sends most of you gardeners catalogs every so often.

It's the most thorough interactive planner I've seen. It's for raised beds, square foot gardening...any type of garden plan or design you choose. Of course, it's primarily for vegetables. But, I suppose if you want to arrange ornamentals using the same planner, there's nothing wrong with that either.

As a follow up, here's an example of the planner in action. I did a mock up of a typical 4' X 8' raised (or mounded) veggie garden bed. I chose those dimensions because that's my typical raised bed size. You can choose whatever size you want from their drop down menu. My Mock Up.

I then clicked on "Generate My Detailed Plan & Planting Guide" for my particular garden plan and Here's My Planting Guide complete with planting/sowing/growing instructions and links to their Vegetable Encyclopedia for even further details as well as their Guide To Planting & Care

It's super easy. The only thing easier is a piece of graph paper and your own pencil. But this one comes with a bit more detailed information all in one spot instead of searching through reams of catalogs and checking online. Go for it and ...stop waiting for vague promises from vague alleged gardeners who vaguely intend to publish their vague garden software-planner. You could grow a garden, harvest your produce and put it to bed for the season by the time that happens. If ever. *grin*

A Garden In Spite Of Myself

Despite my neglect of it, the garden manages to survive and thrive in some cases. Which only goes to prove that....
"Time and Tide.....and apparently a garden....waits for no man." Or woman.

Thank God.

(Click on the photos or run your mouse over the pictures to see viewing options along with descriptions. To view larger, click on lower right hand arrows indicating a larger screen.)

Gardening Lies We Tell Ourselves

Suppose we start at the Lie Of Downsizing our gardens? You know the one where we tell ourselves at the end of each season - or sometime during the winter when our muscles and sore backs have just begun to comfortably atrophy? When painful memories of even minor daily gardening chores in sweltering heat make us want to reach for the ice pack despite the frigid temperatures outside at that moment? The one we share - in all earnestness and honesty - with our other gardening friends who totally concur? The same lie we tell our non-gardening friends or family who quietly roll their eyes in disbelief since they've heard this all before? Yeah, right.

It usually starts in our brain's garden planner by rearranging, redesigning and re-evaluating. What needed too much watering. Too much attention. Never thrived in that spot - or any other for that matter since you've already moved the thing four times over the past four years. (Which could be one of the reasons it never thrived..never having spent enough time in one spot to literally "set down roots".) But I figure that my plants should know by now if they don't show signs of major flourishing by the end of their first season or at least their second, then those wheels get slapped on their bottoms and they're relocated. Of course the most evaluation is of ourselves: Just what and how much can we physically still accomplish? Is it time for us to rely on some wheels to help us around the garden? Do we need more than just a few months of seasonal down-time and more every-other-day-down-time in order to keep on doing what we love?

The actual first "step" in this "Way-More-Than-12-Step-Program" begins with severely limiting initial purchases. Planning on only one visit to each favorite nursery per season. This one for the best perennials. Another for the most well grown annuals and a third for specialty plants that I'll use to make hanging baskets. (One $3.00 Proven Winner can produce a brimmingly beautiful basket by mid season and cost less than any $12-$20 pre-made hanging basket. Plus I love to make up my own baskets.)

But then reality hits. Oh, sure I make those cursory (alleged) one-time visits to the aforementioned nurseries. Only, let's face it, there will be times when I'll have to leave the house and drive the roads for other reasons than going to a nursery! Therein lies the danger of constant temptation and swaying from Step One since no matter where I'm driving, I almost can't avoid passing a nursery, farm, big box store's outdoor plant display or someone selling a few pots of pathetic petunias along side the road. Addiction can have no boundaries and is a hard beastie to beat.

Even the supermarket isn't safe. They, too, now sell luxurious perennials right out front and for really, really good prices, too. I'm hooked even before I enter the door. That's exactly what happened a few weeks ago when I saw a row of gigantic, gray-fern leafed bleeding hearts billowing in the breeze outside ShopRite. There was this especially lush beauty still in bud and not the least leggy or pot bound beckoning my heart with its dangling pink hearts. No second thoughts. No pausing. It was picked up, paid for and positioned carefully in my car so as not to tip over whereupon I returned to the store for a shopping cart and at least managed to get the groceries I'd set out to get.

Last Memorial Weekend, however, I pulled into my driveway after another supermarket challenge to pick up some last minute holiday dinner items. My husband, who was cleaning the mower after just finishing the lawn, got up and walked toward the car to help carry the groceries in the house. As he approached, I shot him the most sheepish stare through the front window and shook my head in dismay. Like an alcoholic up on that podium admitting to their addiction and finally having the courage to ask for help, I hung my head and confessed, "I've got to be stopped. I can't be let out of the house alone anymore." He looked kind of puzzled. But only momentarily until he scanned to the back windows of our station wagon only to see no grocery-filled cloth bags...but rather some tall green or gold leaves, some ferny, some straight, pots of colorful flowers and one or two unidentifiable plants so tall their heads pressed against the roof of the car. He shook his head too, but with an understanding and knowing smile.

"You never made it to the supermarket, right?" He smiled some more. "Well, he said reassuringly, "it IS food for the soul as they say and we can always call for a pizza tonight".

I DO love this man. Plus he rarely rolls his eyes. At least not that I can see.

The Faeries Keep Calling Me Back To My Garden

**If you want to pause picture, click on double lines "II" at bottom left of slide show**


Maybe they'll be calling you back to the garden soon, too. Maybe not for quite a few months. But there's a garden out there, under the frozen earth and inside the warmth of your heart.

And certainly inside your busy head all full of plans and ideas being egged on by those catalogs stuffing your mailbox day after day. Now's still the time for dreaming and planning. But as eager as you may be, don't wish these present days, weeks and months away. Every day....any day....is precious and won't come back again.

Don't wish too hard for "Tomorrow". It'll be here soon enough and then you'll wish it were "Yesterday" when you missed out on something because you were too busy thinking about "Tomorrow".

As my Mother used to day: "Today is the Tomorrow you wished for Yesterday". I think the fairies would agree.

A Little Poetry

“SILENT CRIES”
by Linda Frank

Upon myself I take their sorrows.
A heart so burdened by the weight.
My pace grows slowed and labored
With knowledge of their destined fate.

I do not deign to say “I know”
For that is not my right to feel.
But of their lives,
So callous held
By others who’d not think me real,
To be so bothered
And seek from harm
The ones who cannot shout...

Alarm

Mercy's pleas are little heard
Above the deaf and hardened crowd.
Yet in my saddened, stifled heart
Silent cries ring clear and loud.

_______
(End)

What's It All About?

Whether it's political, social, educational, recreational or avocational, I believe gardening is a combination of all those factors.

Political because politically-influenced policies, regulations and laws will trickle down to effect my environment; what seeds I plant; how clean my air will be; and the safety of my water source...among other things. Social because where more than one gardener gathers, either in person or on the internet, some sort of personal interaction ensues.

It's educational because any gardener worth their weight in compost can tell you - or they should tell you - that they never stop learning. Hence, my life-long-held philosophy that there is no such thing as "an expert gardener". That often-times, self-appointed title presumes a particular gardener knows all there is to know about gardening with little or no wiggle room for any further information to penetrate their already overwhelmingly-overloaded and permanently-closed-for-repairs font of gardening knowledge. Phooey!

Recreational because, gosh darn it, it's fun. It only ceases to be fun when it's laced with pain. Even then, as long as the pain isn't too persistent and can, at least, be managed, there's still a modicum of fun involved sometimes in just the simple gardening act of pruning. Of course, who amongst us hasn't spent less time pruning and more time just standing and staring at the sky, the birds, dashing antics of chipmunks, tall stalks bending in the breeze or just felt the all-encompassing calm enfold us in warm layers from an errant sun peaking between drifting clouds in that sky which so mesmerizes us? All this "fun", despite increasing aches & pains and knees that refuse to bend as much or hips that snap, crackle and pop like that old bowl of Rice Krispies this old fart remembers from my 1950's breakfast table, or the reality that we just can't keep doing what we've been doing the way we've been doing it or to the extent to which we've been doing it....it's still the best form of recreation even for us creaky, old fart gardeners.

Finally, it's an avocation because, I've chosen to devote as much time to it as one would devote to an honest-to-goodness-money-earning job. I don't get paid for it, but I do it anyway. These days, however, I find myself 'avocating' less and less in the garden. Not out of choice, but necessity. Yet what I do do still provides a requisite necessity of diversion; a physical and metaphysical diversion which works better than any bullet on which I can bite to 'ease the pain' of what ails me at the moment be it physiological or psychological.

Consequently, if it's pain I'm trying to escape, then the last thing I want to invite into my circle of diversion is any talk or thoughts of any form of pain- either my own pain or any pain of the animals who share my garden of solace.

My garden has become more and more a safe haven for me and all creatures who've deigned to share it with me, and I might add, who have allowed me to share it with them! Many are creatures who others would dispatch and snuff with nary a care, concern or whit, if it meant protecting a petunia, a tomato plant or even an expensive, long-standing shrub of some kind or just for the shear, unfathomable ego of mounting a dead animal over a mantelpiece.

I need my garden- and all living things in it - to help 'ease my pain'. My contribution and thanks to them for that gift is that I will try to do whatever is in my power to ease theirs. I speak, as always, from a gardener's - not a farmer's - perspective. My garden is my avocation...not a vocation. So my ability to sacrifice that petunia, tomato plant or expensive shrub (on which I probably shouldn't have spent so much money to begin with) is not tied to my living wage or sustenance.

I am an organic gardener endeavoring to remain true to the tenet of "doing the least harm". I'm merely given the privilege of sharing my piece of earth with those who, in reality, have more of a right to exist there than I do and who did so long before my arrival. I figure if they can endure my frailties, faults, mistakes, errors, and downright stupidity, then the least I can do is offer them the same gift, leniency and forgiveness in return.

My circle of acquaintances and topics of gardening conversations has grown tighter these day and totally removed from those who relish and regale the number and methodologies of murder and pain inflicted upon the (perhaps) distant cousins of my extended animal families who reside in or around my place of solace. From the smallest chipmunk to the beautiful, gentle deer families with their babies in tow who grace my back yard...all are welcome in my garden. They have nothing to fear from this gardener and I have everything in a spiritual sense to gain from them.


Time and life is shorter than we think. Too short to waste. Too short not to recognize how sacred all Life is. Pain is too frequent in the world. At the hand of God and nature, it is beyond my control, whether in my garden or out. Yet I can still mourn. At the hand of Man, however, I can not only mourn, but my conscience cannot condone it by silence, and it's my choice to disassociate myself with the multitudes who casually dismiss the pain, suffering and death of God's creatures' as inconsequential.



I am an idealist, some may say. Some will also say I'm naive. (A concept so removed from my personality, it's more than just a little ludicrous to even contemplate.) Some will say I've grown reclusive. But then, if they really knew me, they'd know this already. Some may have confrontational comments about this entry. I don't know whether I should be flattered or annoyed for all "they" might have to say. But then, I'd have to give care in the first place, now wouldn't I? And guess what?

HAIL TO OUR NEW CHIEF!!!

GOD BLESS AMERICA! GOD BLESS OUR NEW PRESIDENT! GOD BLESS THE PEOPLE WHO MADE IT POSSIBLE!

I'm proud to have been one of those people and proud and blessed that this has happened in my lifetime.

Cowardice asks the question: "Is it safe"?
Expediency asks the question:"Is it politic"?
Vanity asks the question:"Is it popular?"
But conscience asks the question:"Is it right?"
And there comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular but one must take it because one's conscience tells one what is right. M.L. King

AND WE HAVE FINALLY DONE WHAT IS RIGHT.


No more words to say despite the following:

Away From The Garden

"To say nothing or remain silent about that which you consider unethical or unacceptable, is to condone it, and like a cancer, allow it to spread"

But, sometimes, even the most verbose, most outraged and most saddened of us can never raise our voices loud enough, express our outrage strong enough or cry rivers of tears deep enough over the pain and suffering inflicted upon the weak, the helpless and the voiceless by the heartless, the cruel and the inhumane.

Sometimes to rail against the prevailing wind of insensitivities is to do so in vain. Ultimately, our only recourse may be to turn from those inevitable gusts, pull our coats of loved ones, ethics, principles and all that is precious to us - even tighter...closer... and follow our own path away from the storm and ignorance that rages around us.

Or not.

BTW: There is no more to read right now.

And The Rains Came...and Came...and...

...when the clouds broke, and the parched earth drank, even the grass plumes were once again fat and happy.



After over a month with nary more than a spit or two of moisture from the sky, I'd begun the process of culling the weak and needy. Beginning with the annuals which I knew would be headed for the compost shortly anyway, I made my 'Sophie's Choice' of who would go and who would be given another day's reprieve.

For weeks we'd been teased with eagerly anticipated prognostications of precipitation. (Try saying that three times fast). The darkening clouds would roll in and blot out the sun's searing rays which continued to bake right through the layers of mulch and dry the soil beneath. Winds would kick up, sucking out whatever moisture remained in shriveling, wilting leaves. The cloying humidity smothered plants and prohibited my pathetic attempts at simple tasks like deadheading. It's hard to do much of anything in the garden when there's an elephant standing on your chest flogging you with a wet towel. But, the tease of rain would be just that: a sadistic taunting followed by a quick return to New Jersey's version of the Sahara.

I'd just about exhausted the paltry remnants of water in my rain barrel. No longer could I see water glistening beneath the screened lid. Now when I lifted the lid, all I could hear was the echoing "plunk" of condensation that dripped from the barrel's inside walls and slapped into the every-lowering water level below.

The daily triage of hose dragging to water perennials in distress and the meager remains of potted annuals, became mandatory and more loathesome as temperatures increased. As any thrifty, water-harvesting organic gardener might have considered, I pondered if I should have collected the sweat dripping from my brow, smearing my glasses and running down my chin to at water at least one small plant or two. But if I'd leaned over that long to catch the droplets, I'm fairly certain the garden would've started to spin, my knees buckled, and the chipmunks would've quickly taken up residence next to my prostrate body and under my garden hat . In my garden, if anything lays immobile long enough, one of them will surely stake squatters' rights. "If you lay there, they will come" and begin storing sunflower seeds and acorns in your ears.

But, mercifully, the rains finally did come. When moisture is bottled up in clouds that long, teasing the air for weeks on end, it's release explodes in of a single huge, pelleting deluge. The sky continued to drain itself in sporadic bursts over long days or steady downpours each night. The drenching sheets of rain hurled and crashed onto the dry earth- bowing, bending and breaking the already-stressed, tall stems of helianthus, physostegia, cosmos, cleome and gomphrena. It splayed open clumps of joe pye weed, spirea, phlox, boltonia, ornamental grasses just beginning to sport fluffy heads and lay prostrate on the ground soil-splashed arching buddleia panicles. Paths were blocked with toppled stems of tall ageratum and bulbous-headed crested cockscomb. But, I didn't care. Free watering was free watering, and sometimes a few plants must incur some damage for the others to survive. And there was a sense of renewed security in the knowledge that the rain's force and speed sluicing down the gutters had filled my waiting - empty - rain barrel once again. I breathed easily at the thought of not hearing that sad "plunk" any longer while also hearing the near-audible sigh of relief from my thirsty garden charges.

Yet my glee and relief was soon overtaken with overwhelming guilt that my area's good fortune had caused countless misfortunes for those in other parts of the country who'd been victimized by a seemingly endless onslaught of hurricanes and devastating storms. No sooner had waters subsided in those areas, another monstrous whirlwind would barrel up from the Caribbean making land along the eastern or western gulf shores. It was the remnants of one of those tragic storms that was at that moment filling my rain barrel and reviving my garden. Although relieved for my garden and for my body which, at least temporarily, wouldn't have to endure baking sun and exacerbate an aching back and neck by hauling hoses and hefting watering cans, I was deeply disturbed and saddened at the more perishable cost to others. My elation quickly became as deflated and flattened as the plants now strewn in beds and blocking paths. Plants, after all, are just plants.

The storms here came in relays over the next few days. After most had subsided to an occasional, sporadic trickle, I'd do reconnaisance of the battered victims in my garden. The fallen branches and huge clumps of oak leaves on the lawn, I'd leave for my husband to gather. But I knew that if I didn't attempt immediate e.r. of plants pelted down by those rains, they'd continue to grow in that sideways, pseudo-espaliered position we've all seen.

With twine, bamboo stakes, sapling cuttings, and sections of strong-stemmed-but-no-longer-useful plants, I wandered the garden making repairs, propping up the 'keepers' and pulling out those plants that just weren't worth the time and trouble. I was still making my "Sophie's Choice" - only now it wasn't the rationing of water, but its swift overabundance that guided my decisions. As I propped and repaired my garden back to some semblance of presentable life for perhaps another month or so, I couldn't - nor should I have - denied a sense of shame at my comparatively inconsequential concerns for my garden when the shattered lives of humans and animals - decidedly more traumatized by these storms - would need much more than a few bits of twine, some branches and a month to repair their bowed and broken lives.

Everything may be relative. But everything, certainly, is not as replaceable as a plant.

Never Again. Never Again.

There ought to be a "Do Not Buy-That-Plant-Ever-Again Registry", just as there is a "Do Not Call Registry". If there were, I'd sign up immediately. However, if I have an established, albeit lapsed relationship with a particular business or organization, I can still receive their unsolicited, unwelcome calls. So, I suspect plants I've coveted and purchased in the past would be exempt from my Do Not Buy Plant Registries as well. Given that my garden has played hostess to a myriad of different plants over the years, that might make registering on such a list a bit rhetorical, not to mention redundant, ridiculous and uproariously pathetic.

But this year if I have to commission some nerdy kid to develop a microchip I can have implanted on my credit card (can you do that?) which will list - with a skull and crossbones after each one - the names of plants that will be rejected when that little strip is scanned through the charge card thingy, then I'll fork over the money to the little Steve Jobs/Bill Gates wunderkind that I would have spent (*see: wasted) on plants that consistently tug at my heartstrings and aforementioned charge card and leave both me and my wallet empty.

I've made lists in the past. I've jotted the usual suspects down on post-its to remember and stuck them in places I can't remember. I've saved plant tags in a manila envelope marked "NEVER BUY AGAIN!". I've photographed the culprits in all stages of anticipated glory right on down to eventual disappointing demise and filed them in an especially created iPhoto library titled "Losers". I've even attempted to enlist the aid of squirrels and chipmunks to nip at my ankles if they see me toting one of the forbidden plants from the back of the car along with the groceries I originally went out to buy but was inexplicably...yeah, that's it..."inexplicably" diverted to a nursery. And should personal bodily attacks by Chip & Dale & Friends fail to thwart my caving in to yet another guara, polemonium (Jacob's Ladder) or a torturous list of I-wanna-bees-in-my-garden...then the wily, fuzzy-tailed acrobats and darting, striped cheek-stuffers have my full permission to nibble, tromp, pull, munch, drop nuts and make homes beneath and upon said waste-of-money-and-time plants.

I admit it. I cannot help myself. I am weak. Each year, I am lured by guara's waiving wands of white, pink or rose butterflies flitting over crimson-tinged or green stems. Sigh! I'm bedeviled by tall blue bell-like clusters atop graceful ferny foliage of Jacob's Ladder. (Wouldn't you know that to tempt my resolve, I've only just discovered there is a variegated Jacob's Ladder. Cruel. Simply sadistic of the plant breeders to taunt me so heartlessly.) Each year I think this time the Jacob's Ladder will come back next season or the guara will at least reward throughout the summer. And each year I'm hoisted by my own plant petard and dunked into disappointment. I'm just a glutton for punishment. Or a glutton for plants, which sometimes can by synonymous.

Oh, there's many others that I could and should put on that "Do Not Buy Registry". Perhaps too many to list or just too many I'm embarrassed to admit whose lure I succumbed to knowing full well they'd be compost fodder by October. At best, they might make a pitiful reappearance the following spring only to wither, produce nary a blossom and ultimately disappear, committing a merciful planticide. Even annuals don't escape my already weak gardeners knees. Especially the notorious "Specialty Annuals". 'Special' not because they can only be grown from cuttings and not seed so that the average, shlumpy gardener can order from a catalog and start on their own. Oh, no. They're 'specialty' is that many of them are primping, petulant prima donnas which require constant shearing, followed by weeks of no growth and no flowers and are usually so root bound and pushed to flower so prematurely by the nurseries growing them that by the time I buy them and pot them up, they've given almost all they've got and are ready to call it quits. Not to mention that one single plant costs more than half a flat of mundane - but workhorse - impatiens or vincas.

New Guinea impatiens are a good example of not much bang for the buck. They're great in the foliage department, but really suck pollen when it comes to floriferous flowering. Then there's pretty and full-of-potential calibrachoas or trailing petunias, trailing verbenas, beautiful, fragrant nemesia and bountiful, basket-filling bacopa, which oooooooh...pretty..... I just discovered is finally being offered as seed!! Okay, so this one's off my "Do Not Buy Registry". Hey, I said nothing about a "Do Not Buy SEED Registry"!!!
I'm an annual (or perennial if that's the case) sucker for them all. Well.......Never Again. Nope. Won't find me pushing cartloads of annuals and dubious perennials that, despite all my efforts, hope and bargaining with my resident voles, will only bring me heartache and empty spots in my garden...for which the vole disclaims any responsibility. (He/she wanted me to put that in print since we do have somewhat of a tenuous relationship.) Nuh-uh. No more. I shall not fall victim to the Kavorka of plantdom!

Perhaps I doth proteth to muth...er...much. Perhaps that Do Not Buy Registry won't be as effective for an addictive plant horder such as myself. Does anyone know where the local chapter of Plant-A-Holics meets? Or where there are some squirrels and chipmunks trained by Tony Soprano?

Whether To Write Or Watch The Willows?

Gardening and writing a blog about gardening is both an oxymoron and a Catch-22. If you want to write all the stories, “adventures”, observations and simple tid bits that occur on a nearly daily basis in your garden…you have to leave the garden to do it. By the time you get inside, wash off your dirty self and begin the mind-numbing task of “What the heck am I supposed to make for dinner?” at 4:30 in the afternoon…you’ve not only lost the energy and desire, you’ve also lost the moment, so to speak. All those lovely, erudite, descriptive word pictures that flowed through your brain so easily hours earlier when you were knee deep in mulch and pulling weeds are now as vanquished as those weeds. Well, the weeds will probably persevere longer than your forgotten prose.

There’s no way I could recount all the blips of ideas, whole paragraphs and outlines of posts and mini-stories that came upon me in such an overwhelming creative rush while I was wheeling my wheelbarrow or washing the birdbaths or lugging watering cans from the rainbarrel. So, what happens? What has happened lo these past couple of months since my last entry? Those brilliantly woven words just ripe for typing, fizzled or they were saved, stored and filed away to be blogged at a later date. I’d reassure myself they’d be written down the next day or the day after because, as Scarlett O’Hara reassured herself, “Ta’marra is anutha daya!!”

Well, ta’marra and ta’marra became yestuhdaya and the day bafoe yestudaya and morphed into weeks. Oh, Fiddle-Dee-Dee. By then, it was ‘old news’. I mean who wants to read about some start up suggestions for beginning another new gardening season. Like, setting the “bones” of the garden right before moving any perennials or adding new ones. “Bones” being stepping stones and pathways. Or do you just galumph your garden clogs into your beds risking squishing and compacting of soil around nearby plants…do you!!??

Then there’s the spotting of volunteers and plotting their R&R. That’d be Rescue and Replacing as opposed to Rest and Relaxation which – hahahaha – neither gardener nor garden resident does in these ‘chere parts, pahd-ner. Like these serendipitous voluntary petunias of purple shades, salvia farinacea , balsams, celosia and ooops, where’d that zinnia come from? All surrounding one of my ancient clumps of coreopsis "Zagreb" that's just low enough to permit the peaking coral heads of a new (albeit temporary) resident, a non-hardy-in-my-zone-but-happy-as-a-clam-in-Florida tropical hibiscus.

Of course there were the usual suspect, ubiquitous thoughts and ideas about new introductions this year. Did I get any? Would I? Would I pay full price and will the woodchuck like them as much as I do? Do pigs fly?

So, I’ve decided to enter this truncated posting as my mea culpa for not being magnanimous enough to take the time to share my voluminous gardening expertise with my vast, vast, vast audience of readers. Did I already ask if pigs flew?

Unlike po lil ole Missy Scarlet who lamented to Rhett, “But, what’ll ah do?”, like Rhett, frankly, I don’t give a damn either because I know I’ll be more diligent in yanking my lil ole Yankee butt inside a few moments earlier to put down on screen all or some of those thoughts that wafted past the buddleias, over the hedge of white mediland roses and around the corner of the billowing willow and settled – kaplonk – in my fertile, compost-amended brain. Fiddle-Dee-Dee, indeed!

NOW....WHERE WAS I?

Oh, yeah, passed out over a collection of seed catalogs. Right. Well, I’ve since regained consciousness just in time to gear up for a little juggling act.

This Spring has seen not only the reawakening of much loved perennials, but a renewed venture into kitchen remodeling that had been put on hold for, oh, about two or three years now. Of course, if the kitchen had its way, it would have junked itself years before that. But since it isn’t responsible to pay the bills and create time where none exists, that decision making was left to us.

Once we made the commitment, however, **Sounds of carousel kaliope music**“Let The Games Begin! Step up folks and see the little lady juggle contractors and perennials all with one hand tied behind her back because she put her shoulder out shoveling wet compost. And in the center ring, see her also juggle blindfolded because she couldn't bear to see yet another replacement cabinet door being marched down her driveway by the Fed Ex guy." (After the 7th delivery of yet another replacement door, the guy actually asked me if the cabinet people were building my cabinets one at a time).

As anyone knows who’s tred the dark waters of kitchen renovations and come out with heads barely above water, it’s a journey rife with anxiety, frustration, depression and, oh yeah, anger. In the beginning, more than just a few people forewarned: “Boy, if the two of you can stay together after this, then you know you’ve got one strong marriage!” Could it really be that bad I thought? **Shakes head, sniffles and wipes away an errant tear** I remember asking a similar naive question about the first tomato hornworm I saw and decided to invoke my usual ‘live and let live’ tactics I apply to most other aspects of gardening. After two days of unfettered interference on my part, that horned beast had shredded my lone Brandywine into fine heirloom lace and entirely peppered what leaves that remained with black mini polka dots, which I came to learn was frass or Mr. Hornworm’s fecal remains of my lovely, heirloom, tastiest-of-all and summarily, ingested, Brandywine. In other words, heed the learned advice of others who've 'been there and done that'. In the case of kitchen rennovations: Be Afraid! Be Very, Very Afraid!

Kitchen kapers and ensuing hyjinks (I'm delusional from even the low VOC paint fumes) demands 100% of your attention and nearly as much of your time and energy. If you're a gardener, that means making some additional tough decisions. Despite the forgiving and independent nature of loyal perennials, they still need a certain amount of support and guidance from the hand of their gardener to aid and ease them out of winter dormancy into their healthiest spring rebirth. Whole leaves that had missed the rake and shredder and lay clumped like a wet mat upon their crowns could rot them out if left too long. Paths needed clearing, beds restructuring, weeding, recomposting. There was timely pruning of herbaceous perennials’ seed heads and stalks stripped bare by birds as well as cutting back of woodies and shrubs. (I think I still missed one or two buddleias. Good news/bad news for having so many of them).

There’s only a certain window of opportunity for these tasks, and it can close quite quickly and unexpectedly especially if we’re surprised with an inordinately warm early spring compliments of Global Warming. So, despite their delusions of total independence, perennials still need some kindly - and the aforementioned: timely - assistance. Not unlike the grown child who thinks they know it all and shun the assistance of a wizened elder until they need financial support. In the case of perennials, it’s when they need the support of garden stakes, watering, mulching, hand-picking of beetles and soapy sprays to cleanse them of aphids.

This kitchen-garden juggling left me feeling torn in two directions at once. And no time to decide which needed attention first and how the heck I was going to do both at the same time if it was a tie. Do I move those perennials before they reach the underside of my eaves? Or do I paint the bottom half of the chair rail in the dining area of my kitchen? Do I agonize over which annuals to chose for the half-gazillion hanging baskets and planters that some garden gnome decided I need to fill each year? Or do I agonize over the seemingly endless parade of door-replacements? Decisions.

And so, I made my decision. Along with perennials and annuals and herbs…I’ve decided I’m also growing a clone. One of us will merrily skip in the garden. (Well, shuffle.) While the other paints, spackles, grouts, argues with contractors and waits for the Fed Ex guy.

I think I’ll let the clone handle all the latter. I’d rather skip. (Well, shuffle.)

Putting Seed Ordering On A Diet

After a protracted absence from blogging, I'm once again at liberty to share my inner workings with the world wide web. (Or the three people aside from my husband who read this thing anyway.) During that time, my catalog plight was digitally captured for posterity. ...So much from which to choose and so little time - and money - to match my unquenchable seed thirst. (*See spilled libation to dull the credit-card senses*)

With finances a tad tight and a dogged (make that "catted") determination to encourage more reliance upon saved seed, I'm culling my seed ordering down to the barest bones. Well, some catalog's order-form bones will have a bit more meat on them than others, but I am trying my best this year to stick to the Jenny Craig School of Seed Ordering. I'm only allowing myself 1,000 calories of energy to be expended on any one catalog.

Time and sowing of saved seeds will be the true test of whether my 'seed-ordering diet' has produced a gain or a loss. When I weigh my garden success on that seed-germination-and-growth-pass-or-fail scale in a few months from now, it'll be one of the few times (make that the only time) in my life when I'll ever rejoice at having that needle tip towards the high side.

Then, I think I'll celebrate with some good chocolate. Hey, I'm not the one getting on that scale.

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

“Rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens”, of course. They go without saying. “Bright copper kettles” , however, are too time-consuming to keep shiny, and these days I prefer polartec gloves instead of “Warm woolen mittens”. But when it comes to “Brown paper packages tied up with strings"……those definitely are "A few of my favorite things". Especially if those brown paper packages contain seeds of favorite flowers that I’ve collected from my garden at the end of the season.

It’s always sad to see another season close. My body welcomes the rest, but my heart is heavy with the reality that another year has passed; another chance to ‘get it right’ has come and gone, and ahead, lies another winter’s hiatus during which I'll really, really, really try not to encourage too much sedentary nesting and hunkering indoors over catalogs and cocoa which I know from past slothful...er..."relaxing" activities led to atrophied gardening muscles.

Each fall I promise to downsize the garden next spring and each spring I manage to tweak the hell out of that promise. With all sincerity I vow to reign in my lustful seed ordering next January and only collect seeds of but a few of my own garden favorites before the birds have their fill. “Heck. I won’t need a whole flat of melampodiums to fill that space again”, I’ll scold myself. “Why save all those seeds then? One six pack or two will do nicely if I just space them properly”. Of course as soon as those delusional utterances leave my lips, I can hear plug trays and cell packs, still stacked in the greenhouse awaiting a good cleaning, groan under the prospective, inevitable weight of too many, not-yet-sowed seedlings.

But on a crisp, sunny autumn afternoon, to the exclusion of logic, my frugal gardener’s brain is bubbling with the prospect of all those free seeds just lying outside my front door – waiting to be culled into my cache of little brown lunch bags. I’ll wait till those heads are just browned enough. Too early and they’ll be too green to ensure future germination. Too late… and they’ll crumble to dust as the head is snapped or pruned. After having made the mistake of standing in situ whilst I tried to dislodge ripe seeds from a head and lost most of them to a sudden gust of wind or an unsteady hand (me?), I now just collect the entire head, plop it in its labeled brown bag and separate the chaff later in the house on a white paper towel or paper plate. The ones I can attend to sooner will be transferred to little brown coin envelopes, labeled and sealed and stored in an airtight plastic tool box with several packets of anti-desiccants to keep the seed dry. The heads I procrastinate in cleaning, remain so until sometime when the snow starts flying and then they’ll join the others in that plastic toolbox. More often than not, mostly because the Holidays seem to whip up faster and faster these days and I'm occupied with those activities, I’ll have at least a dozen larger brown paper bags containing full-sized heads, untouched for months, but at least sealed from air and moisture by bag tops twisted and tied with...you guessed it...some kind of string.

It’s comforting to know that despite the earlier and earlier arrival of eye-candy-filled seed catalogs, I’ve got my own stash of free beauties ready and waiting to be deployed into seed-starting mix and warmed on a heat mat. Especially if some of those seeds were, shall we say, a wee bit pricey? Like the $10 I paid for a mere 5 seeds of Vigna caracalla or Snail/Corkscrew Vine. (Pictured Below) Each day I check the ripening, green seedpod for tiny swellings inside indicating seeds are forming. Although I was only blessed with four blossoms on the vine, I’ve noticed at least ten immature pods. One in particular seems to ripen more each hour. I figure if even half those pods render three seeds apiece, I’ve got $30 worth of seeds at my future disposal. Not a bad initial investment for such a great payoff. Despite the scarcity of the blooms (my fault for having placed it so close to a thug-like, Star of Yelta, morning glory on steroids), those that did put on a show, put on a show indeed. Not to mention the perfume!





Two of my other “must haves next year” were almost as costly for a minimum amount of seeds. The first was Zinnia elegans “Magellen Cherry”. (Pictured Left) A newcomer for me this year. With hybridization most zinnias like this one can reliably reward with continued bloom even without religious deadheading, sporting new blooms above old, mostly remaining disease-free and withstands long periods of drought. This 15” variety is one that fills all that criteria. Plus, the color is outstanding and is a magnet for butterflies and goldfinches.



Zinnia elegans “Zowie Yellow Flame” (Pictured Left) is even more impressive. A 2-3 foot (depending on your particular pruning practices) showstopper that creates an unavoidable focal point for the human eye and literally demands that passing bees and butterflies screech to a halt.



But, if I collected no other seed this season at all, I was especially intent upon collecting seeds from another plant that was no newcomer to catalogs at all but another newcomer to my garden: Rudbeckia hirta “Irish Eyes”. (Pictured Below)


The same humongous, 6” across floral rays as Rudbeckia hirta “Indian Summer” I'd grown before. But instead of “Indian Summer’s” dark brown bulging-button eyes, “Irish Eyes’ “ name belies exactly what you might expect: a center ‘eye’ of bright lime green protruding prominently from the heart of perfectly formed, two-tone yellow-gold petals. When paired with a magenta “Wave” petunia, it creates a vignette that is quite striking. Their added attraction for me was their long-lasting and later-season bloom that provided an eye-catching (no pun intended) punch as August faded into September’s swan song for most other plants.

I never cull all the seed heads of any flower. I try to leave most annuals and certainly all perennials standing and unsheared to provide some late fall and winter snacks for my little furry and feathered friends. They also give some structure and skeletal bones for my winter garden. Remaining dried seed heads will nod from the weight of nibbling goldfinches, wrens, titmice and chickadees. Withered stems will brown and crinkle, some turning a slimy black mush when a first freeze hits, recalling only vague memories of a lush colorful garden just weeks before. Muted gold and auburn leaves, already blotting out parts of the lawn, will be gathered and shredded to join the already decomposing annuals dumped from pots and window boxes into this fall’s newly formed compost pile.

I suppose I began seed saving more out of curiosity than anything else. Wondering whether the seeds I gathered at the end of a season would be reborn the following January, February or March when I sowed them inside or which ones would gallantly volunteer in the warming Spring earth and save a poor old gardener lady the trouble of babying it under lights, on heat mats and coddling in the greenhouse. Eventually, just like any other organic gardener who’s not one to opt for immediate gratification and has honed frugality to a fine art, there came a time in this gardener’s journey when I realized the financial benefits of seed saving as well. But…also just like any other gardener – organic or not – the luring floral sensuality of come-hither catalog photos enticing with new varieties gives way to plant lust and frugality is quickly tossed out the window along with a check and an order for way more seeds than I could ever hope to start that year. Oh well, just more of those ”brown paper packages tied up with…. packing tape and first-class shipping labels” to add to my Favorite Things.

It's Fall Already? How'd That Happen?

Oh sure the purple asters are a pretty big hint that the autumnal equinox is upon and already crept passed me, but, heck, I've still got a half of a flat of snapdragons I started from seed last February, that I've been babying along just because I hadn't been able to find the exact, perfect spot for them. It seems, the advent of Fall has decided their fate. Next stop: compost pile.

Seriously, where did all the anxiety of getting plants in the ground, staking newly re-sprouting perennials, loading them into my wheelbarrow for yet another new location....where did it go and how did I get here to Fall so quickly? Is the speed of season change anything to do with increased gravitational pull of the sun, global warming, more bovine methane releases or....am I just getting older? Well, the inconceivability of slamming into the sun, the intolerability of slogging through melting ice caps 5 miles inland off the Jersey Shore , the unpleasantness of passing out Gax-X at alarming rates to dairy farmers... are all possible default reasons for the quickened passage of time. However, sticking yet another candle into an (albeit decadent) chocolate buttercream-iced birthday cake (thus ushering in another year closer to 'old fartdom' ) is the least acceptable reason to my vain old self. Sadly, no explanation, either logical, illogical or one based in self denial, has a thing to do with the seasonal-slippery slope a gardener inevitably must careen down as the sun bathes our gardens at ever-lowering altitudes - casting longer and longer shadows - each day.

The appearance of that first, single, yellowed oak leaf is Mother Nature's reminder to let the air slowly seep from my garden balloon for another season. I may be a bit reluctant to chill out just yet, but my perennials quite willingly anticipate a much needed nap under a soon-to-be chilled earth. Even though many of them have already tucked themselves under blankets of mulch, this gardener isn't quite ready to pull up the covers and call it quits. As long as there's one last lingering monarch; a few remaining hummingbirds; the shockingly bright yellow male goldfinches haven't totally muddied to the dull chartreuse of their female counterparts, and my garden is still alive with colorful perennials that have only just come into their own with the appearance of that first, yellowed oak leaf...then this gardener still has miles to go (and beds to tend) before I sleep.

For me, fall is neither an end nor a beginning but a transition. The weather is so quixotic - waxing and waning from cool to hot and dry to wet – if I wasn’t looking at a calendar, I might be hard pressed to tell whether summer was coming or going. But because I know it so well, in spite of the weather, my garden is more in a state of limbo. That ‘garden limbo’ affords an easier transition for nearly all of my plants. If the containers and baskets of annuals still look decent enough and don’t require hauling water from my rainbarrel or dragging the hose to nether regions of the garden, then they’ll be allowed a temporary reprieve from becoming compost fodder. I have the same approach to annuals planted in the garden. Except most of them don’t wind up worm food till next spring. After I’ve collected from them whatever seeds I want to save for next season, I leave them, along with untrimmed or un-deadheaded perennials, as food and shelter for the birds and to better anchor the soil. (Mulch helps too.)

Fall, like spring, are probably the two of the biggest reasons why I love perennials so much. In the Spring (aside from bulbs) they are the first, reliable – and with little or no help from me – signs of life and color. While in the Fall, they ‘keep the music playing’ so to speak right through that transition period. If you learn which perennials actually don’t even begin to perform until that ‘back and forth temperature dance’ is upon us, you can have color in the garden right on through a first snow. Just a few of the perennials still adorning my garden right now are the shorter Michaelmas or New England asters (like the ones pictured above) or my 'perennially' favorite tall aster, White Boltonia Asteroides, this year backed by taller-than-usual brilliant orange annual Tithonia. (Pictured Left).


It's worth the wait for the lovely contrast of white fluffy heads on the chocolate eupatoreum (Joe-Pye Weed) alongside late-blooming pink phlox. (Pictured below).





There's also my much-coveted ornamental grasses like this pinkish-hued, plumed miscanthus next to a "Fireworks" solidago which, as you can see, lives up to its common name and right behind that is a "Pink Delight" buddleia. (Pictured Below) I humbly - yet with a smidge of conceit - admit I have so many buddleias, I actually lost count.




Also, too, are the sedums, the late arriving morning glories and moonflowers, red clusters from pinnapple sages, a second flush of penstemons, a literal hedge of starry white-flowered, sweet autumn clematis which wafts its vanilla scent through my open kitchen window in the evening. Finally, all my favorite three-season shrubs and sub shrubs, constantly morphing throughout the season from lime green to burgundy, dark green, variegated or silver and finally the burnt orange, red and maroon foliage, ultimately forming a frame for some last-minute huge chrysanthemums. Although I love those big, fat globes of button-flowers, I've always considered chrysanthemums merely expensive annuals and being the ever-frugal gardener, I'm reluctant to buy more than a couple. But, my husband absolutely adores them. They 'scream' Fall to him and since that is his favorite season, who am I to deny finding an excuse to peruse another nursery where I might just happen upon some final perennial sales before poinsettias take charge of their display areas and their gates are shut till next March.

I am a perennial-a-holic and admit it proudly. I like growing vegetables. I really like growing annuals. But I love growing perennials. Even in frosty months to come, ice crystals on those ornamental grass heads and snow-dusted sedum clumps will be just as beautiful as that first brilliant gold-coin yellow of my wood poppy or the azure blue catmint heralding the arrival of spring and rebirth in the garden.

And when the snow-dusted sedums have browned beyond recognition and the grasses have bent and bowed under that ice and snow, there remains a magical reassurance that brings a smile to this gardener’s face when I bundle up in winter gear and stand in what I assume is one of my pathways then covered with snow and gaze out over that frozen blanket in the dead of winter. I know that beneath that frosty mantle lies sleeping roots of potential beauty just waiting. Waiting for me to love them all over again. Actually, I love them just as much when they’re sleeping, which is perhaps another reason why I love perennials as I do. Not just because of their inherent promise to return each year. But if, by some fluke of quirky Mother Nature, they shouldn’t return, I can at least hold onto that promise through the cold winter and sometimes …in some years…that Promise alone is just enough to keep me going until that wood poppy finally appears again.

Another Part Of The Garden: Garden Forums

Into most gardeners’ lives these days, a gardening forum or two must fall. Chatting online amongst a group of people who share a fondness or outright love of gardening, is as common in these Internet days as was the Saturday afternoon garden clubs of old – sans the white gloves, wide-brimmed straw hats, pearls and teacups. In the online garden ‘clubs’ of today, testosterone accounts for equal participation and baseball caps or no caps are more the attire. Dirty fingernails belie not only lack of white gloves but no gloves at all; bandanas adorn necks instead of pearls; and the drink of choice usually depends upon just how much gardening that particular gardener intends to accomplish the day after. (Hiccup!) Cyber ‘clubbers’ are more likely plunked in front of their computers at all hours of the day or night donned in p.j.s or nightgowns, shorts and t-shirts, overalls or garden-soiled jeans or as bare as a freshly cleared field of corn with perhaps two or three niblets remaining visible to the very naked eye.

While many forum members choose to share their life history along with their gardening history, others choose to protect their personal anonymity and reveal just enough of their lives outside the garden to bridge the gap between total alienation and a certain level of guarded friendship. Still others – rarely - will form deep and abiding friendships that generously spill over into real lives off line for years and years.

The genesis of the world-wide web conceived and birthed instantaneous (depending on your ISP), direct and convenient access to the world outside our door, outside out country and outside our mind. The Internet plied the fertile ground of a basic human need: The need to communicate with our fellow human beings – with the bonus feature of anonymity….and Lo! Forums Were Begat! And yea, they spread unto the globe sending forth messages of love, camaraderie, commiseration, knowledge and some of the vilest behavior imaginable…and unimaginable.

We had passed the pearly gates of Bill, peered through the forbidden Windows and ate of the Apple. We were doomed. But we were curious and still hungry after that measly little apple. We ignored the black cannonballs with their lit fuses threatening us with fatal numerical errors. Although I’ve yet to see a 666, it’s just a matter of time before a way is devised to spin our heads around and spew pea soup on our screens as we contemplate the death of both our soft and hard ware. We survived the Hounds of Hellish HTML; walked away from more crashes than Evil Kenevil and with the safe-sex equivalent to STDs, we slipped into our Norton and Symantec prophylactics hoping to shield us from any CTVs (computer transmitted viruses). Yet no java scripted stones of computer commandments nor St. Steven’s iBook of Jobs could have prepared us for the Damien of Forums: The Troll and his demonic mission to divide and conquer.
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The plethora of divergent personalities populating forums who are merely out for a pleasant weave through a new garden thread, provides a veritable smorgasbord of prey upon which a Troll can feast. Divisiveness is an easy accomplishment for the well-armored Troll. Conquering takes a bit longer depending on the tenacity of the Troll and the degree of vulnerability amongst trusting souls or the denial by others of the Troll’s capacity to create unrelenting havoc. His deviant progress, however, can be thwarted or halted outright if more members are as equally tenacious as the Troll to ensure his departure, and if they are wise to the futility of silence when battling the Troll for the hearts, minds – and mostly – the time and tried patience all forum family members. New and old.

In an atmosphere where most forum members just want to be heard, recognized and validated, a simple response from another member usually achieves that affirmation. A door is then opened for the single most important guest: The Dialog. But, any open-door dialog also invites the unwelcome Troll. Once the troll has passed the threshold, can Discourse be far behind? Too many guests and not enough food to go around. Someone has to go hungry. Usually it’s the weakest of the herd, the newest members, who are culled first by The Troll. Unwary of their new surroundings or the ways of the Internet Trolls, the 'fresh meat' wanders off into his net of idiotic rambling babbles. Talking in tongues has a different connotation when referring to TrollTalk. Once gorged on the forum souls of departed newbies and having frightened off potential lurking members - now too apprehensive to even enter the Troll’s killing fields - the Troll becomes greedy, more invasive and hungrier now for the morale of stronger members. Reincarnating in different forms, as real demons some times do, the Troll can fool the most wizened members. Some members succumb. They are polite - even kindly - to the disguised Troll. Others will choose the road of least resistance and ignore the Troll in the hopes the evil one will “just go away”, thus making it “all better” so they can once again resume their innocent exchanges.

A word here about forum exchanges: they can be friendly and informative at best; civil mostly; tenuous and circumspect at times; and uncomfortably inhospitable at their worst. Each person perceives different degrees of importance to what they have to contribute. Just as in real life. In real life what we think is important may not at all be important to our neighbor, our spouses, our parents or children or the person next to you at the supermarket checkout line. Sometimes we envision pearls of wisdom being imparted to others or our humor tickling a smile or laughter. Other times we hope our sympathies and empathies are accepted with the sincerity we intended. On other occasions we humbly share lessons we’ve learned through life experience. All these, we think are of importance because they are important to us…and rightly so. Yet, you must admit, that oft times if we heard those same words or thoughts or ‘life experiences’ – in person – from another, some of us couldn’t skulk away from our neighbor fast enough; shut the bedroom door behind our spouse hard enough; turn a deaf ear to our parents often enough; send our child packing to their room sternly enough; or abandon our shopping carts and escape from the supermarket checkout line desperately enough.

Ah, but therein lies the basic difference between sharing what’s important to us - in person with neighbors, family and even that person in the checkout line - and imparting those same personally-important thoughts with distant, faceless strangers on a tiny screen with a constantly blinking cursor awaiting our next potentially incriminating word. Whereas we can always cross back over to our neighbor’s yard, open the door to the bedroom; invite our parents to a quiet dinner (if we’re still fortunate to have them); walk up the stairs to our child’s room; or remain in line to help pack a fellow shopper’s groceries…none of this is possible in an online forum. All is judged by the written word and written words can more often than not be interpreted quite differently in the eye of the beholder than they were intended in the mind's eye of the writer. There is no visual contact, facial expression, hand gestures or intonation of voice in a forum exchange to enhance understanding or intent. In person, your second chance at clarification is enabled by utilizing all your senses. You can listen with ears not deafened by your own prideful opinion and see with eyes broadened and cleared to view the entirety of the picture. You may still walk away from your neighbor, kiss your spouse goodnight, hug your child the next morning or wait patiently in the checkout line while that shopper finishes their thought – and still believe them to be wrong or annoying, but you’ve given them and yourself the opportunity to share, perhaps, the one and only true thing you can and should share: Respect. You’ve let the other person know their words and thoughts and opinions are important. And Respect is one aspect of furthering understanding between individuals that can be duplicated on forums. But, it must be earned. Which brings us back to....

... Troll Central. A Troll's primary rule of engagement is to dismiss and destroy Respect. Muddle the lines of communication between members and encourage even further discourse. Reminding me of an old Twilight Zone episode where everyone on a block began blaming each other and accusing each other of being ‘an alien’ causing all the trouble in the neighborhood. In the end, they turned on each other and destroyed themselves. All the while being observed by true aliens who ultimately declared: “We don’t have to worry about conquering these Earthlings. They’ll destroy themselves”.

Trolls also calculate the strength of the commonly held comparison between forum families and real–life families. Like any real-life family with dysfunctional members, there are nasty and critical relations, meek and mild, outspoken and confident, people pleasers and people haters, jealous, indifferent, callous, cruel, judges and jurors, leaders and followers, sympathizers and empathizers, experienced and novices, wise and the foolish, humorous and humorless, fearsome and feared. Forum families share the same cast of characters - only with many, many more relatives at the forum dinner table. The trunk, branches, stems and roots of a real family tree could never compare to the vast root system of a forum family. The roots of one single forum family can penetrate walls, towns, cities and countries racial, religious, cultural and political barriers. And if there’s a Martian growing a tomato, you can bet that gardening forums’ roots are beaming through gaseous galactic clouds more deadly than any lingering haze of malathion.

On the whole gardening forums in particular have become a place to learn and share, to brag and compliment and just to shoot the breeze when the spirit moves you. If it’s pouring outside or the temperature is something only to be tolerated by that Martian tomato grower, a gardener is logged on. It’s that forum family mentality the Troll must deduce before he begins his harangue. His barrage of insults, curt responses, condescension and culling of the member-herd are carefully gauged before he draws first blood. If he sees a chink in the family’s armor, a breach in their wall of unity for the good of the entire forum family, his chances for dividing and conquering increase. If he succeeds in severing the lines of communication between family members; if in-fighting between ‘relatives’ causes them to lose sight of the single goal of restoring Peace to their 'little family' by vanquishing the Troll through unified solidarity…then the Troll will win. If, however, the family remains united and provides support by proactively urging The One True Mighty Favah of their beloved forums to send his tech crew of archangels to join battle with the Troll and slam the gates behind him… then …and only then can the family get on with their forum lives and enjoy their exchanges once again. Until the next troll slithers across the threshold or shrouds himself in yet another cloak. And he will.

Truly, anything worthwhile is worth fighting for. Silence never wins over evil. ”Your very silence”, as Euripides said,”shows you agree”. To sit in the sidelines and not participate in even the smallest way (that’s why God invented email) and maintain you still “support” the ‘family’; or to fear being splattered with some bile spewed by the Troll as he scatter shoots the entire family and worry the stain can’t be removed from your nice garden togs; to be so fearfully apathetic and as Helen Keller said, ”Science may have found a cure for most evils, but it has not found a remedy for the the worst evil of all: the apathy of human beings”…..to follow that tact and ultimately reap the reward of peace and tranquility [if] and once the Troll has been vanquished, is, to me, hypocritical, parasitical and cowardly.

One of my favorite phrases and mantras, if you will, for refuting apathy and silence when speaking up for a group - a family – speaking up as a group and as a family – is from Martin Luther King, Jr.:
” Cowardice asks the question, 'Is it safe?'. Expediency asks the question, 'Is it politic?'. Vanity asks the question, 'Is it popular?'. But, conscience asks the question, 'Is it right?'. And there comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but one must take it because one's conscience tells one that it is right.”

And what is Right? That is beyond my purview to judge. I don’t judge. I comment and I do what I think is right. I close this with a final quote from Seneca: ”The real compensation of a right action is inherent in having performed it”. In other words, if I feel something is right and I act upon it, there is no compensation, no reward, no gratitude I seek. It is the mere knowledge that I did something - took some action - instead of nothing which is my sole and most fulfilling reward. Does that make me a Better person? Absolutely not. It isn't about Better or Worse or - as I alluded - Right or Wrong. It is about what I perceive as Right for me. And it is that which I will have to live with. And, heck, even Ghandi took some kind of action. Passivity, yes. But passive aggressive action.

In the end, communication still remains the key in gardening forum 'families'. In any family perhaps. If the lines of communication are weakened or compromised by ego or apathy or overt anger, then Trolls just have to sit back and wait for us to devour each other. Like the aliens on that block who just watched ...and waited. Then, our little alleged forum family becomes nothing more than those people standing in that supermarket line who can’t run fast enough to get away from each other.

You Know You're Not Turning Your Compost Enough When...

...one of your resident red-tailed hawks decides he'd better get his talons busy tossing the stuff if you're not going to do it.

I awoke one morning a few weeks ago to see this "little" guy (if you can say 26" is little for a bird that isn't a condor or a bald eagle) was prancing around in one of my compost piles. I ran to my trusty, handy-dandy Petersen's Bird Guide to identify this handsome devil and it appeared he was a juvenile red-tailed hawk. No red tail at his age, so that threw me off initially. At that point, like any typical 'baby' bird, he was more fluffy and downy than anything and his coloring was still a bit muted although beautiful.

After I took several pictures (of course) I noticed he wasn't exactly prancing. He was panicking as he tried, unsuccessfully, to fly out of the soft, vinyl-webbed enclosure. With every attempt he'd crash into the webbing, bounce off of it and back into the pile. Why was he unable to get airborne, I wondered? Then I saw the chunk of bark that he held clutched in the huge talons of his orange right leg. One of those daggers had pierced through the wood and it was lodged onto his foot. My heart broke as I watched him flutter, crash and bounce continually while that chunk of bark clung to him. Perhaps that was throwing off his balance. I, too, began to panic. I've seen my share of critters in distress in and around my garden and have always done whatever I could to rescue them. So my immediate reaction was to help this poor fellow out of the enclosure.

Racing to the back door to his aid - to do exactly what I didn't know - I suddenly stopped in my tracks. "Linda", I reminded myself, "this is no little finch you're rescuing here!" I could hardly scoop him up in a towel and deposit him in a shoe box. I didn't have any beach towels handy nor did I or my husband wear shoes big enough. Besides, even if he did allow me to get close enough, I risked more than just a gentle brush of feathers should he manage to take flight past my face. The thought of deep gashes from those talons across my cheeks and forearms caused me to seriously pause and rethink the situation and my approach.

First, I needed some protective headgear. Ah! My husband's Yankee batting helmet. But what about body armor? It was 90 degrees plus that morning, but I rummaged through the winter clothes in the closet and hauled out my heaviest, quilted, down-stuffed jacket. Okay: head, body somewhat protected. Now I needed something to fend him off should he decide I was more of a threat than an aid and his increased panic rejuvenated his flying abilities and sent him lunging for my helmeted, down-stuffed body. I didn't want to flail something over my head like a mad woman. That would frighten him even more. (Not the neighbors, however, as they've become used to some of my rather "strange peccadilloes" in the garden over the years.)

Do you ever notice that when you're on automatic-pilot-emergency-must-do-something-and-no-time-to-properly-evaluate-the-circumstances mode...you wind up doing at least one thing that, in retrospect, was totally ludicrous? As in: "What the hell was I thinking?"

In my frenetic quest for a pseudo-defensive weapon to wield and finding it unbearable to wait a second longer to help this beautiful creature, anxiously poised at the backdoor, I reached for the closest thing at hand. A flyswatter. A pink, plastic flyswatter.

Indeed. What the hell was I thinking?

To my relief - and I'm sure the young hawk's - just as I neared the back corner of my house, I saw that not only had he managed to free himself from my 8'X4' leaf mulch/compost pile, but was resting quite peacefully and regally on the corner of my deck. I silently withdrew to the backdoor, closing it slowly as I stepped inside so he wouldn't hear the "click" of the latch, become startled again and fly off. I wanted to see him even closer from the safety inside my house and check that he'd unhinged himself rom the chunk of wood as well. Slithering up to the back window once again, I could see that his talons were indeed free of the wood, and he posed there for some time on the corner of my deck assuming a very stately stance as if to tell me "Go ahead, check me out for as long as you need. I'm okay."

Still wearing my helmet and down jacket I managed to snap a few more pictures of him in all his royal glory as he temporarily claimed my deck for his throne.

You must trust me, dear reader, that there isn't one iota of embellishment here. These were the actual events and my actions as they unfolded. Truly as silly as parts may sound, on that blazing hot morning in late July, I sallied forth unto The Great Piles Of Compost On The Moors, helmeted, downed and brandishing my Excalibur flyswatter which was removed not from a legendary stone but from a metal hook on the wall of my mudroom - to rescue not a fair maiden but one of Nature's gifts that blessed my garden that day. However, on that fateful day, Nature oversaw the welfare of its own as She so often does and relieved me of my gardener's duty as steward of my land and the critters therein.

I removed the Royal Yankee Helmet; shed my regal robes of down and laid up Excalibur flyswatter upon the golden hook - knowing that soon enough another day would dawn outside my castle walls when a new battle would join and "Her Ladyship of Gardenz-A-Lot" would be called upon to once again unsheathe the Holy Grail of flyswatters.

All hail my not-so-little-compost turner!