LAYERS OF LEAVES & STACKS OF STUFF

Having lost their last bit of color and unable to cling one more moment to the tall oaks, browned, crinkly leaves are the only occupants of my garden bench these early November days.

It's gray, blustery and intermittently raining as I write this. The kind of day I'm just as glad the garden no longer demands my utmost and urgent attention. A day when merely viewing the leaf-strewn lawn and covered garden beds through my living room picture window is quite sufficient, warmer and calmer.

Oh a week or so ago, when my neck gave me a moment's respite from pain, I managed to rake some beds fairly clear of gigantic leaves twice the size of my hand. But within a few hours, another wave of leaves blew in and clustered around the remnants of annuals and perennial stalks in those same beds. My brother once likened it to raking Central Park. A New York reference, but pick a park, any park, in any part of the country and it conveys the same analogy.

Some areas that I've left "natural" (a euphemist title I've given to those areas beyond my physical abilities to properly maintain) will remain a blanket of brown throughout the winter. Only turning white with the first snow cover. When there's just a dusting it sort of resembles a marled, marbled carpet of browns, whites and tans. Quite pretty. Almost as if I designed it to be that way, which, of course, is what I'll tell those who remark how ingenious it was to just leave the leaves lie so as to create such an effect. I have no shame.

I'm relieved to know my bulbs were planted when I had the chance. One more thing off my mind. I'm unable to help my husband with the leaf gathering and shredding this year. Worsening neck problems are limiting many of my usual fall clean up tasks. But I make short forays outside when the weather and the pain allows.

Besides, I'm saving myself in the hopes of controlling any pain and regrouping some physical strength for the remaining indoor kitchen remodeling - which was to have been completed last winter but because of still other physical interruptions - had to be put on hold. It's not so much the bare, spotty-spackled and unpapered walls, or unpainted ceilings or ratty, beyond-ever-cleaning-properly kitchen carpeting that I can no longer bear to live with. It's the clutter. When you learn to gingerly maneuver around piles of "stuff" that shouldn't be where it is, then you know it's been there too long. As George Carlin once said: we all have too much stuff, and we just keep moving stuff from one place to another to make room for more stuff. I've just got too much stuff and have plumb run out of room to move it. Plus it doesn't help that I've married an enabler who can go toe-to-toe with my packrat penchant.

So now stuff just gets piled on top of stuff. Like archeological anomalies, the mini mountains rise higher and wider in each room, revealing sedimentary layers of summer stuff, preceded by a strata of spring stuff and bottoming out in cretaceous remains of last winter's stuff. When I have to dig down and retrieve a woolen sweater in a week or so and should I unearth a fossilized crumb of last Christmas's cheesecake stuffed in the pocket, I think that may be the last straw.

And speaking of Christmas, with the holidays fast approaching, the prospect of my usual full-tilt yuletide decorating and hauling in a tree to adorn - is beyond daunting - it's nearly impossible to contemplate. The only sensation worse is the guilt I feel for even thinking of eliminating that most special part of the holidays. Even last year when things were only slightly less chaotic here, we still managed to prop up a little four-foot charmer I found standing all alone - last in the lot - at Home Depot. Small as it was we still managed to pack over 300 lights on the thing and decorate with most of my handmade ornaments. Mess surrounded us but when house lights were dimmed, all clutter faded in the sparkling colored glow of that little tree and soothed our senses with scents of balsam.

I don't know how we'll manage this year, however, with chaos having turned into deer-in-the-headlight-carrying-cans-of-paint-and-rolls-of-wallpaper panic. I don't think even Rockefeller Center's goliath could have enough lights strung to blot out our additional "stuff".

A friend suggested if it helped to camouflage the eyesores and hold sway some semblance of holiday cheer and decor, I should drape colored sheets over the mini mountains and top each with gigantic bows. I laughed half-heartedly, but it's beginning to sound more and more acceptable. Perhaps a smattering of little twinkly white lights casually festooning each "package". Not exactly Christmas at Martha's, but Martha doesn't have piles of stuff, and if she did, she's got four houses to utilize as storage space and a staff to shuffle things around. It's also highly doubtful she's out there raking her own fall leaves, worried she'll not complete her fall garden prep "all by herself". An abundance of less-than-minimum wage assistance courtesy of former cellmates on loan through prison work release programs has no doubt seen to that. And should she, like myself, require the occasional suppportive neck brace, I'm sure hers is at least made of velvet and monogrammed.

I do suspect, however, she'd think the twinkly lights on the draped piles of "stuff" would be a nice touch. Perhaps...even...a good thing.

SHIFTING SEASONS

Fall is officially here. Changing leaves, a slight chill in the air, the white Boltonia asteroides in full bloom and I've got to call upon muscles that have only had two weeks of needed downtime: that short span between the lushness of the garden's last blooming gasp and the drop of the autumn's first frosty-shoe upon tender annuals. (The other shoe dropping sometime around November and reducing the hardier perennials to mush or stripped to bare stalks jutting through freshly fallen leaves.) Spring and fall are always the most hectic in the garden and they both expose only a small window of opportunity during which I can accomplish specific gardening tasks indigenous to each season.

The leaves still cling to the branches, yet they've begun their slow color metamorphosis. The trees here don't present the crazy quilt of brilliant reds and golds which blanket the New England countryside. Nor do they shimmer and quake with the yellows of western aspens. In my mid Atlantic region, the dominant changing colors are rusty browns and muddy reds with burnished coppers and golds jumbled amongst evergreen scrub pines and red oaks. The upside of the ruddier less spectacular fall foliage is the enduring red oaks' maroon cloak which remains a stark contrast to the backdrop of winter's white canvas till spring's arrival.

I'm hoping to put in more ornamental bulbs aside from the usual garlic bulbs. I've kept my promise to myself this year and purchased over 200 daffodils, 50 tulips and 100 crocus. For years I've wanted the area under congested stands of 50 foot oaks and pines to come alive in spring with clusters of yellow and white daffodils as well as drifts of purple and white crocus to herald the daffodils arrival. Throughout the summer I've been cultivating shades of emerald, olive and lime green moss in this mostly shaded area. Some ornamental grasses that can handle shade as well as fringed-leaf dicentra, sweet woodruff and late spring-blooming dwarf azaleas provide a bit of color along with the mossy lawn. But throughout winter and early spring, the sun opens the canopy. Along with a new driveway border of buddleias which I'm underplanting with magenta tulips, I can now envision a kaleidoscope of early spring color. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Of the bulbs I mentioned that need planting now, the one which takes priority at this time is my stalwart, trusty - and indispensible - garlic. I was so proud of my harvest this past season (especially after my disastrous garlic crop of the previous season) I just had to take one of those "proud parental" shots of my garlic babies. No, this isn't a rare quarter-embedded variety, it's actually Music Czech which I purchased from the a local, organic supplier.

Usually planted on Columbus Day weekend, I'm forced to delay my usual schedule this year. So many matters to oversee inside the house, I"m at least two weeks behind on gardening tasks. Maybe a bit more, because the garlic beds have to be prepped first with some kelp meal, compost, bone meal and baking soda. Planted "knuckle's deep" about 5 inches apart and only mulched after the first frost. All the food for growth is already inside that little clove so there's no need for any initial, additional fertilizing. Mulching too early can promote rotting of the bulb since the ground is still susceptible to too much moisture retention and temperature fluctuations. Always looking those few to six inches of top green growth from underneath a thick blanket of shredded leaves, most winters their little green tips can still be seen jutting not only through mulch but layers of snow and into the frosty air. The important thing is to get their roots established. Probably the only significant garlic acumen necessary is timing its seeding. Planting too early may leave overstimulated top growth vulnerable to damaging winter weather. Too little or two few shoots can mean the roots haven't grown sufficiently or strong enough to support the bulbs throughout the winter. In March, bright green lances thrust skyward almost before my eyes as the garlic awakens. Then a side dress of compost or a slow release, organic fertilizer (usually poultry-manure based) and a foliar feed of fish emulsion is applied. From there on, it's just a matter of weeding, steady (not over) watering and waiting till the ultimately 3-4 foot leaves begin yellowing then harvesting when about 1/3 to 1/2 the leaves have browned and begin listing a bit. But harvesting is a long way off considering I haven't even begun to separate the cloves.

Even though the temperatures have dropped and cooler rains have softened the earth for planting... and those daffodils, tulips, crocus and garlic bulbs are impatiently waiting to be planted, I can still take a moment to sit under my morning glory-tented gazebo and enjoy the last blooms of the season; a shift of seasons which won't come again. At least not until next Spring.

GARDENING ASIDE

The majority of what I write on this blog is garden-related. But since my life consists of a great many things outside the garden, it's only logical that my mood and mind will wander beyond its green borders. So, momentarily, I'll put my garden hat and gloves aside.

The best sense I can make out of my present mood is that I've run out of patience. Perhaps with some others...but mostly...with myself. Considering I've always come up woefully short in that department to begin with, that brings my tolerance level not to zero but to a minus. Whether my current state is due to personal introspection or related to the undeniable reality of this being the day after the fifth anniversary of the greatest tragedy that befell this country in my lifetime and perhaps all others'. Whatever the reason, I've an uncontrollable need for release and as always that pressure is alleviated by words. My words.

Mostly I'm tired of wasting time. Which is solely my own fault. I cast no blame other than in my own direction. I'm tired of frittering away even milliseconds on minutiae, and I finally realized that the real problem lay not necessarily in that pre-occupation, but in my inability to personally define "minutiae".

Optimistically (which is also not my strong suit), I am sensing an increased clarity - perhaps due to increased age - (so much for my momentary optimism) of those people, events, opinions and moments I've allowed to impact the precious time I think I have on this Earth. "Think" because that's the only gauge we have of our allotted time here.

We all acknowledge our mortality, yet we live our lives as if we are immortal. We waste; we obsess; we expend precious energy and time in futile pursuit and inconsequential worries. We are either exhausting ourselves by shaking our fists at shadows. Or lemming-like, we accept what we perceive as our pre-determined fate and resign ourselves to that permanent position under clouds of doom. Fearful of stepping a toe into the sunshine, to lower those raised fists, opening our palms and embrace ourselves for who we are, what true gifts we have and make the most - the very most - out of it all. Then raise our arms once again. Only this time to rejoice in eternal gratitude for recognizing and banishing the minutiae.

Because I sense I may be the only one to read this, then I must assume I'm the only one to find some benefit from these words, and...for now that's enough for me. For now they simply serve as a written reminder to myself the next time I find myself stalled at another "minutiae fork-in-the-road".
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UPDATE:
After all my blatherings about recognizing and eliminating minutiae and not allowing it to interfere with what really matters in my life...whoops! I did it again!!. I permitted a sorry, inconsequential, insignificant event to swill around in my brain for longer than it deserved (which was no time at all). What's worse... I actually considered spending even more precious time addressing it.

Until I remembered that by addressing something I'm validating it. Not "agreeing". Validation doesn't mean agreement. It just means: recognition, and when I consider the source, it would have made my addressing it even more ludicrous.

Perhaps if I wrote 1,000 times on a blackboard: "Skip The Stupidity!" it might make a more lasting impression. Sometimes I need to be hit over the head to have something sink in. So, in that regard, I suppose I should be full of gratitude for this reminder. Or full of something.

WELL WISHING

Is there anyone as hopelessly optimistic as a gardener? This question coming from Mrs. Skeptical, Logical, Plan-For-The-Worst? But, that's the human, female part of me. It's the non-gender-related gardening side of me holds more positive wishes for the future.

Why then would I lament and scorn the heat and humidity of summer each morning as I lug around the hose; shake my fist at the ever-voracious, nibbling voles who suck down plants overnight leaving only a gaping hole where once stood that plant and yet just as that hungry vole, I'll eagerly devour the first garden catalog which has already found its way into my mailbox. The bulb catalogs. Bulbs to be planted in the fall for late winter, spring and summer bloom.

You see, this way I reap the benefits of both my logical self my gardening self. (As any gardener knows, Gardening" and "Logic" are oxymorons when used in the same sentence. One doesn't garden because it's logical. It's fraught with illogic and contradictions. Nor does logic ever propel a person into gardening. After all, only Mad Dogs and Englishmen ...and gardeners go out in the midday sun to water a pot of parched petunias at the end of the driveway.)

My logical self tells me if I plan my bulb display now and place my orders early, I'll get what I want and achieve (with the squirrels', rabbits' and deer's cooperation) the look I want. My gardening self tells me...if I plan my bulb display now and place my orders, I'm apparently casting my hopes into that little wishing well of mine in my shade garden or that "Big" wishing well in the deepest recesses of my brain, that I'll be around next spring and summer to see that display.

"Wishing and hoping and planning...." Lyrics from an old Dusty Springfield song and music to a gardener's ears.

DEVIL DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

...and I don't mean the creme-filled chocolate cake we used to stuff in our lunchboxes as kids.

I was going to enter a picture here, but how do you photograph heat? Other than displaying pathetic images of crinkled leaves and withering, drooping plants that are now just hanging on, waiting...waiting for some blessed relief from this relentless heat.

But, the weeds...the weeds are thriving. Usually about this time of the season, I'm lamenting bare spots left by spent perennials or pooped-out annuals. But...strangely...this year there's very little spots that are without some greenery. Theose patches of green, however, aren't the welcomed, late-season volunteer salvias or rejeuvenated pansies. Nope. Weeds. Lush, flowing, healthy, stoicly rooted and nearly impossible to pull from even the most parched soil.

Weeds are normally insideously loathesome. The way they seem to grow almost from the same point in the ground where sprouts a beautiful celosia, or clump of phlox or a verbena. They hide amongst them. Use them as shields to protect them from the watchful (most times) eye of this gardener. Their little weed brains hoping that perhaps I'll overlook them, pass them by as they crouch behind a stalk...a stem of a prized perennial or flowering annual.

But when weather conditions are so torturous and relentless upon my cultivated garden as they've been these past few weeks with this intolerable, unceasing heat, the weeds assume a different personna. (Everything in my garden has a personna. What can I say? I have this penchant for anthropomorphosizing just about anything. Including, obviously...weeds.)

This opressive weather emboldens them. Gives them courage to come out from behind that leaf or stem of coreopsis. They brazenly reach and stretch; waiving their flowering seed heads over my poor withering beauties. Flowering seed heads just waiting for the next rain, a sprinkle of the hose or tiny cloud burst to spew their prodgeny over my garden bed and set the stage for their next generation's plague upon my little patch.

I think, sometimes, as I wander the paths, bending, stretching, pushing aside nearly bare stalks of hyssop and mildewed phlox, I think I can hear laughter. Mocking. Giggling amongst the weeds. Like I said: anthropomophosizing means I not only characterize them...I can hear them as well.

"Here, here...We're over here! See us? Waiving at you? You can try and pull us, but we've been hiding and growing and sucking the life and whatever moisture there is out of the soil and starving your..your little beauties...for so many weeks now, we can't be moved. You can pull on a leaf, even dislodge a root hair or two. But we're stronger now. We'll win this time. Put away that hoe. Pocket that weeding fork. Wipe the sweat from your eyes and give the garden over to us this time. For now anyway. Till us under or hack us out come fall and toss us in the compost pile. But for now, we rule the beds. The garden is ours!"

As my glasses smear with sweat dripping from my hair stuffed into the wide-brimmed hat which shades my face but does little else to afford comfort, I sigh. Put away my pruners. Swat yet another mosquito from my leg and give unto Ceasar that which is Ceasar's. If Ceasar was a weed that is.

Before closing the door behind me and feeling that first gush of life-saving air conditioning from within the house, I can hear them again. Snickering. Cheering.

"Go ahead, laugh and smirk all you want. Your Ides of March are coming and that should be sometime around Labor Day. Beware. Beware. Bwaahaahaaa!",I remind them. Then like any good Roman citizen...I head for the baths.

Now where'd I put my toga?