Nosegays

My first antique, heirloom (David Austen) rose, cut on Father's Day. Doesn't it have a glorious petal pattern? Looking into one of these roses is like looking up into a Victorian woman's petticoats.

Rendered here, you can appreciate the layers of petals, the delicate ruffle of the blossom.
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Lately I've been whipping up nosegays from the garden to trot across the street to neighbors as thank-you gifts.

Here's a simple one, cut and composed during a rain, of roses, lavender, and sage.
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Roses, "tickseed" coreopsis, feverfew, lavender, and sage.
The lovely thing about these nosegays is that you can flip them upside down and dry them.
So it seems my dreams of roses have come true--and I am very, very happy indeed. Every time I hold a stem I feel rich beyond imagination.

All Work, and Lots of Play Too

Martin's been putting in an expanded path in the front of the house, with bricks and pavers, and everything is in a tizzy. So we've been doing more of this lately:

Than this:

Relaxing is in the plans somewhere, since I did locate some large prawns for dinner. Martin also hung a large two-person swing from our maple and it is waiting for two weary posteriors, and maybe four.

Mothering, for J mainly

A friend of mine recently sent a plea into cyberspace.
New Stay At Home Mom. I'm very pregnant. I already have a two year old. It's Hot. Suggestions?

Well, I scribbled off some nonsense. Schedule, flexibility, yadayadayada.

And then, tonight, as Elspeth went up to the bath, covered in tomato, sand, and tears, I faced the kitchen alone. The floor was covered in pita bread and couscous. Dishes stuck out their dirty tongues from every corner. Weariness spread through me, radiating out from the pit of my stomach. I entertained the temptation to flee and spend some time outdoors, but as even as I put a mental foot out the door, I began thinking so hard about something else that I forgot to care about what I was doing.

This often happens, and it is the key, I think, to enjoying "stay-at-home-mothering." That is, the way to enjoy yourself immensely and your children more. Turn to drink.

Just kidding. Actually, the secret is CULTIVATING YOUR INNER LIFE. This of course, is only one of the secrets, and can not be what it should be without a community in place. And a sense of enjoyment.

This sounds really corny, like a promo-talk or a powerpoint-driven empower yourself gobbelty gook. But here goes, anyway. . .

When my inner life is full--when I'm engaged in a project, such as designing a new garden, writing a book or a short story or an essay, or simply enjoying a good book--then I am a much more energetic mother. I do not snap at Martin or melt or explode at the kids. I find myself singing and dancing and reading with the girls and enjoying them as friends as well as daughters. Developing a vibrant inner life takes discipline, support, and determination. It requires me to remember that I am young and full of energy, and some things are sacred but many are not. It helps me remember and trust in the presence of God and the goodness of the world.

It also helps rankling comments ("you're not employed, then") or categories ("housemother") to slide right off my back like oil. I am, like all other humans and my own children, undefinable. While others may slot me into a box it certainly doesn't alter who I really am. A rich inner life gives me strength not to have to defend what I'm doing--not to explain that I worked, stayed home by choice, and work on other things still. It gives me energy for good conversation and a thirst to continue learning. It helps me find others whom will challenge and excite me--who do not talk of their children every moment but of the book they just finished or the project they started.

If I am faithful to cultivate my own inner life (even if this is just 30 minutes of writing instead of cleaning during nap time, and writing dialogue for a story in my head while I cook dinner)--then my girls will follow suit. Merry already spends hours on her own, creating stories out loud and pretending. I think actually we're on the odd side, but that's okay. We even turn our conversation into operas sometimes, Merry singing one part about her mac and cheese and I the other about the plates or whatever the occasion calls for. When she was four, I picked her up from preschool and then we walked across the street to the tea room where she told me stories and I told her some of my own. The lovely tradition was banished of course when Elspeth came along, but the ritual of tea (at home or near the garden now) encourages us both in our own pursuits and in the enjoyment of one another.

Also, a beer at the end of the day--(or good chocolate if you're pregnant!) helps.

So let the dust build and write your libretto instead. Your children will thank you.

Birds, Comforting Birds

One of the happiest things about gardening is the birds that flock over to keep me company. Sparrows flutter over, of course, joined by doves, robins, cardinals, and blue jays. The birds take turns perching on our fence and swooping over to peck at the bird feeder, where they scatter sunflower seeds into my herb bed, giving impromptu seedlings to the rambling circle of mint (planted in pots to combat its invasive nature), licorice basil, sage, Roman chamomile, lupine and delphinium.

An older friend of mine who came for dinner and tea told me that a robin used to keep her company in England as she gardened ("Robins are smaller in England,") she emphasized. The robin followed her down rows, puttering in the upturned soil for worms.

What better gardening companion: a red-breasted, gentle bird who cares nothing for bills, bedtimes, world disaster and turmoil, but only for a worm now and then, the patter of rain in a warm garden, a well-built nest and an extra handful of seed.

O, my Luv is like a red, red rose that's newly sprung in June. . .

The rose garden was a broad swath of lawn and and a sad mosquito-breeding pond when we moved in. Last fall I dug up the turf, inch by inch with a trowel and shovel. I found loads of Agastache and Russian Sage on clearance at Lowe's and settled them as a hedge. Roses on clearance, pathetic specimens, came back (all but one) this spring.

So here's this spring in the rose garden:

See the wee Agastache coming back to greet the sun?
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And here's a view in June:



Agastache (a type of Hyssop)* makes a full, lovely low hedge that attracts droves of bees and requires little water. Groundcover for the rose garden includes creeping thyme, oregano, phlox, and allysum.
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Martin dragged this pump home last fall from someone's garbage heap. Planted in a circle around the pump: irises (hesitant), Russian Sage (old standby--will someday be tall spires of purple!), and on either side of the path is a lovely sprawl of verbena*.

I've also tucked in numerous perennials, two maturing lilacs and two young lilacs, chives, and a growing hedge of rosemary.

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The cheerful white "daisy" in the background is feverfew, which self seeds like mad and will eventually make a hedge along with Jupiter's beard in front of the peonies (bloomed early spring) and climbing rose.

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Here you see Martin's amazing path, laid from stone he hauled in our Suburu from various sites, mainly a valley where stones fall regularly around railroad tracks. He drove me down to dig up some ox eye daisies. We also tried lifting a few of the huge slabs together but they must have been hundreds of pounds, and we could barely budge them, much less carry them twenty feet to the back of the car. Watch out, those of our acquaintance here! Martin's looking for a fresh set of hands and another strong back!

Martin and I have come to an understanding, and it is a happy one, born from our particular strengths and joys: Martin is clearly a hardscaper, while I am far more interested in horticulture. Some outstanding books on hardscaping and garden design include John Brooke's The Well-Designed Garden (and indeed any book by John Brookes) and Keith Davitt's Hardscaping.


*There's a fairly dizzying variety of verbena and agastache. Verbena comes in all different heights and grows as an annual and perennial. Keep posted to see my sister's variety of agastache, surviving in desert conditions in Arizona.

Laundry Dries Better at Wazoo

For a while, upon our arrival at Wazoo Farm, I had no dryer. I hung as much as I could fit on the laundry line and then draped socks and T shirts on every available surface. As the days grew rainier and colder, I strung up a line in our sunroom and congratulated myself on introducing humidity to my sad, dry, indoor plants.

We have a dryer now, a huge double-capacity beauty of a machine. I barely think about the luxury as I toss in loads and loads of wet clothes, set the dial and kick up my feet. Often I leave the clothes sitting in the dryer with an easy conscience, rather than mourning a sudden cloudburst.

But now that I have the option of a dryer, I immensely enjoy hanging my clothes and sheets and towels out of doors, though my laundry line is strung inconveniently for anyone who wants to tromp down our hill stairs (my dream: Amish/French laundry line on a pulley system!). Merry has her own stretch of line on which to clip up clothes, and this fits right into her Laura world.

Yes, we are still Ma and Pa. Elsepth is Elspeth-Carrie or Elspeth-Laura though Elephant was Laura this morning. The funniest part yet about our Laura Pioneer experience occurred yesterday, when Pet and Patty (who looked a bit like a blue Subaru) took us into Mancato (Morgantown, WV) so we could visit the doctor and Sam's Club. Since my right breast is like a sack full of marbles, we take trips to Motown every so often so it can get far more attention than it deserves. After much whinnying from Pet and Patty along the way, Merry insisted on accompanying me to the surgeon's office where we waited, and waited, and waited some more so the surgeon could, in approximately 3-5 minutes, plump me like a pillow, shrug unconcernedly, and send me on my way.

After this Pet and Patty dashed like crazy horses down to the parking lot of Sam's Club so Merry and I could wander around the aisles filling our cart with impossibly huge items. Martin was running late for his class so the entire Laura Pioneer crew sat down at a plastic table and ate a huge, greasy pizza and shared an immorally large cup of Coke. ("It was like Sam Walton himself handed me that pizza," Martin confided, eyes glistening.)

Then Pet and Patty blundered through the rain and fog to take us back to Waynesburg.

After this trip, I was ready to trade the blue Subaru for a team of horses and big box stores and busy surgeons for a country store and a visiting doctor.

Will I trade in my dryer and go with the line entirely? Probably not. But sometimes I wish I could.

GUEST GARDENER: KENNETH COCKROFT IN BROOKSHIRE, TX

Cecropia Moth Caterpillar
At this stage, the caterpillar is about 5 inches long. In late summer it will spin a cocoon to pupate through the winter and develop into a beautiful moth next spring. The cecropia is the largest North American moth, with a wingspan of 5-6 inches.
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Magnolia Blossom
The trees are pretty dazzling with these giant blossoms. Stand under the trees in the morning and listen to bees ever about their important business as they travel from flower to flower.


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Text and photos by Kenneth Cockroft
When not directing a baffling array of cameras at a news station in Houston, K Cockroft battles poisonous snakes and creates beauty out of raw nature on their property in Brookshire, Texas.

CONTRIBUTOR BOOK REVIEW: MAYFLOWER BY NATHANIEL PHILBRICK

Mayflower
by Nathaniel Philbrick
Penguin (Non-Classics); Reprint edition (April 24, 2007)

As someone who considers “America’s Hometown” his hometown, my knowledge of the Pilgrims is nauseating at times. I grew up a stone’s throw from Plimoth Plantation (literally kids used to throw stones at it) and about 100 yards from the Eel River (which turned out to be an integral body of water to the Pilgrims).

In fact, I fell in Eel River at least 3 times in my life— fishing. It took me years to understand that fishing isn’t supposed to be an extreme sport (although I hear it is up for consideration for X-Games 2008).

All that said, for someone who has driven by places like The Governor John Carver motel, the Pilgrim Sands hotel, his whole life— and has even given audio tours of Plymouth Rock, the Plantation and the Mayflower II— Philbrick’s “Mayflower” was incredibly illuminating and enjoyable— and comes highly recommended.

I approached the book expecting to be regaled with stories of the treacherous journey across the sea in a tiny boat— but “Mayflower” concentrates heavily on what happened once the Pilgrims came ashore. The book traces the beginnings of the “cult” of Pilgrims and truly gains momentum as it parallels the leaders of the Pokanoket Indians and the Pilgrims in 1620— and the second generations of both.

The message of the book is timely— it stresses that a dynamic of war and conflict was not inherent in the relationship between these 2 cultures, and at first— through compromise, respect, and need— they maintained a delicate balance to avoid war.
However, when the second generation of Pilgrims became more and more greedy, and more and more intolerant of the Natives, war became inevitable.

“Mayflower” brings the reader from pre-1620, up through King Philip’s War (post-1670) and the incredible horrors of this conflict.

For someone who today lives a stone’s throw from the Boston Common (OK, maybe if you had a cannon for an arm) the idea of Indian heads mounted on posts, or people tied to trees there about 350 years ago, is horrifying.

I have read a bit on Native American history "Bury my Heart at Wounded Knee" for example) and found “Mayflower” to be a better and more interesting view on the details of the conflict and the incredible evil that often motivated the English settlers. While “Buried” displays the western expansion and details many battles, “Mayflower” gives the reader a greater arc of story and has more room for the personal details of the characters. Its voice and content are interesting, and it is actually a very easy read.

Finally, “Mayflower” attempts to parallel the dynamic between the English and Natives with that of the American’s and those in the Middle East today. It draws connections between the fact that religious differences, economic need, and cultural disparities are not the cause of war and bloodshed— as the original English and Native dynamic in the Northeast allowed for all these things in a delicate harmony. Rather, Philbrick shows, misunderstanding and greed are the root of war. And can certainly be avoided.

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Reviewed by Kurt Cole Eidsvig
While Eidsvig's own ancestors may have been marauding, insane Vikings, Kurt bypasses a horned helmet in order to devote himself to painting, writing poetry, and adoring Frank O'Hara. For more on Eidsvig and O'Hara both, check out his blog.

Spring and All

Friends from Iowa stayed over last night on their way home from Philadelphia. They looked weary when they pulled in, but we refreshed them with Malaysian Noodle Soup (Cooking Light recipe, not my [their?] best), Angelfood Cake with fresh strawberries, and a pancake breakfast this morning. I'm not sure any of it helped their three kids--all of them seemed more than ready to be home again. Instead, they got another eight hours in the car, with six or eight more tomorrow.

After sending them off, we enjoyed a beautiful late spring day. Morning temps were on the cool side--upper 40s, low 50s--but they hovered in the mid-70s most of the afternoon, the direct sun somewhat offset by an almost coastal breeze. We stayed inside until about 11:00, Kim cleaning (the house was spotless yesterday afternoon, but five kids later it needed another scrubbing) and me ... well, me mostly grumbling about needing a nap.

Finally I got up off my duff and decided I'd finally build that lightweight gate I've been meaning to put together for a while now.

Let me step back for a minute. I've been struggling with the deer fence. Those of you who live in areas where deer aren't a problem are lucky. Blessed. You have a shining. And your garden goods are no doubt more plentiful.

We have deer. We have deer so much that, if you read Kim's entry from a couple days ago, you know they all but serve margaritas on our deck. Last fall I rose early as the fog burned off and spotted six or seven sleeping in our backyard. I haven't seen that many yet this year, but they're there, out back, in the woods. They know we keep a garden. They know we have lillies and roses and cabbbage and tomatoes. We have little pear, apple, and cherry trees just finding their legs. And we have the sweet smell of people who don't know what's about to hit them.

But we're fighting back. We're neophytes, but no buck's going to put a twelve-point antler in our plans. We have plantings--mint and marigolds, which deer supposedly hate--all over (though we're careful to contain the mint). We spray a few unprotected young with Liquid Fence, a tasty solution of "putrified egg" and garlic. The inventor, who is pictured on the back of the bottle, said after moving to the Pennsylvania Poconos, he worked for years on the perfect environmentally-responsible solution to his deer problem. Those must have been some good-smellin' years, because this stuff is noxious. Imagine buying a can of sardines, opening it and emptying the contents into a tupperware, cracking an egg on top, covering the whole bit with minced garlic, sealing the tupperware, and then leaving it to mellow for, oh, about 47 years. That's Liquid Fence. And like most serious gardners in our county, we have a traditional deer fence.

What is a deer fence, the uninitiated ask? Well, it's a webbing, or netting, that you string between posts around your garden. There are different kinds, and I can't speak to the effectiveness of one over the other. Our friends have thicker, stiffer webbing; ours is thin, tightly woven netting that's more or less transparent. We got it down the road at Agway, and the plastic packaging features a sketch of two deer looking quizzically through the fence. Their faces convey an expression like, "How did it come to this?" You almost feel sorry for them: They've been had.

OK, so I've driven in these metal "U-posts" that hold the fence up three or four different times, each time trying for usefulness and symmetry. The problem is, the dimensions of our garden keep changing as we add more beds and learn the hard way what the deer like and what they leave be. Initially, for example, I did not include Kim's "rose bush alley" in my deer fence. I figured deer, like humans, would most enjoy vegetables.



Wrong-O. They eat the buds of roses like Skittles. Hey, I said I was a newbie.

So I reconfigured. And again. And again. I'll admit, it took me a while to figure out that we needed a break in the fence to get in and out. And I really didn't figure that out; my friend John said, "You know, you'll need a break in the fence to get in and out." My insight was, Yeah!

Yesterday, I hammered 20 U-posts (maybe more) into the ground and carefully strung our deer fence from post to post. I'm guessing this is about a 3500 to 4000 square foot area. I'm not eager to do this again.

So, to convince myself and Kim and the world and the deer that now, finally, the fence is staying, I built a gate to swing between two posts. It had to be light, because the posts aren't well-fixed into the ground (by nature, they're meant to be moveable). And it had to be at least as high as the posts. And it had to hinge and it had to hook.

At approximately 11am this morning, I motivated myself to build this gate. I envisioned it. I made a mental list of what I would need:

--chicken wire
--cedar stakes
--staple gun
--staples
--hammer
--nails
--screwdriver
--screws
--hinges
--hooks and eyes
--handsaw

Pretty standard stuff, but I lacked a few things. Once again, Ace was the place for me. In about three hours, including a lunch break, I produced this:



Then I walked over this evening and saw my retired neighbor was building her own privacy fence. And I thought, we can do this. In this case, "we" is not "she and I" but "me, myself, and I." We can do it. We're an English professor, and we write poems, and we're sort of timid around power tools, but WE CAN.

And if WE do, I'll be sure to share.

We (all together now) had a lovely guest over this evening. Mary Jane is the aunt of our friend John. Here she is with two other charming ladies enjoying tea and ice cream.



Good night and good luck.

Fawndly: Eat all the Rosebuds You Want, Honey

Yesterday morning I awakened to the smell of drop biscuits coming from the kitchen downstairs. Coffee was brewed, the biscuits were hot, and the kitchen was full of smoke. I swung open our back door.

Only a few feet away from me, down our back steps, a fawn lay sunning itself on the deck slats. She lay there, fixedly watching us as Martin and Merry both joined me at the door, and not until Merry began walking toward her did she scramble down the stairs and fly down our hill.

The sight of this grace and beauty has made me less upset about the beheaded rose bushes, and though we continue to spray with Liquid Fence, I am more content to share just a little every now and then.

One of the most exquisite things about building a garden is the birds that seem to have shown up in crowds to help us celebrate. And now a fawn has joined as well. Planting and caring for our little scrap of this world has brought us that much closer with the world itself, and now we suddenly care so much about weather patterns, wildlife, the warming of the soil every morning and the cool dew underfoot.

Call Up Your Friends, Set Them to Work!

First Lavender Harvest
(and Yarrow)
early June 2007

Lavendar's blue, dilly, dilly,
Lavendar's green.
When you are King, dilly, dilly,
I shall be Queen.

Who told you so? Dilly, dilly,
Who told you so?
Twas mine own heart, dilly, dilly,
That told me so.

Throwing about the notion of farming lavender. Yes, this would be the sweetest of existences.

Legend has it that Mother Mary set baby Jesus to dry on a lavender bush, and since then it has smelled like heaven.

In other news, lovely friends, delicious dinners continue.
Martin made a wonderful stone path in the rose garden (pictures tomorrow),
and tomorrow will start on our main path. Whew! Hope the weather continues merry and the lemonade flows deep!

Not an Awful Falafel Dinner

Today, Martin not only tilled up the grass to make way for a wide path, but he also hauled insane amounts of rocks and bricks. And then he came home, and in order to relax, he made Greek food.

After a rip-roaring thunderstorm, an expectant dining room:

The preparations (falafel balls, homemade tahini sauce, a party of peppers):

Our friend N brought a salad made entirely of her homegrown greens (Red Sails lettuce, spicy micro arugula). . .


What better after a scorching day than a good thunderstorm, lovely friends, and fantastic food?

PS. Saw Grassy Sam the Groundhog today ambling up our back hill steps, fat as ever. I blustered out of the door, yelling: Away! Away! BAD groundhog! To which Grassy Sam crouched in a mocking sort of way, gamboled away leisurely and then disappeared in some gap in the steps. I threw a piece of wood after him but he did not resurface. Perhaps we do need to borrow a Groundhog Trap. Oooo, Grassy Sam. We'll get you yet, you bounder.

Deer Me, What Can the Matter Be?

Apparently, human urine repels deer. I suggested that Martin begin peeing in bottles. We could not only keep our own deer away, but we could bottle up the lovely stuff and sell it for 30. a bottle.

Then poor souls who awaken to find their David Austen roses, among others, completely beheaded, could fly to Agway in a frenzy and buy more deer fence and our delightful bottled mixture.

It could not smell any worse than the concoction we mortgaged our house for this morning. Active ingredients include garlic and egg solids. It smells AMAZING. Think sulfur mixed with rotting Italian food mixed with. . .words escape me. Hopefully it will smell even worse to the deer. Martin is down in the sandpit spraying our pear trees and I can smell it from way up here. Only a few minutes ago did he realize pounding in stakes at 11:00 at night may upset the neighbors (this pounding, during a busy, loud afternoon, can be heard blocks and blocks away, over the creek and up the hill).

In other news Merry is wearing wild outfits; since Laura Pioneer always wears a petticoat, she has begun layering one dress on top of the other and blimey but she wears her great big Laura sun bonnet everywhere. The capacious bonnet is so ubiquitous I am now completely oblivious to the glances we attract in public, say while grocery shopping this afternoon as I bought out the section of popsicles and Turkey Hill. Did I mention how HOT it was today? But back to Merry--we checked out the first season of Little House; I hadn't seen it in years and had never realized how high both Pa's and Ma's voice really are. Merry is riveted. We watch an episode every Tuesday and Thursday night during Martin's class, and she always prepares a snack of some sort for us to eat as we watch: glasses of milk, say, and toffee, which she covers with tea towels or paper towels and then pulls off with a flourish as I enter the room.

I came upstairs after the first Little House viewing to find Merry tucked up in bed, snuggled into her pillow in her baseball cap. "Don't you want this off?" I said, removing the cap. Merry clamped her hand over the crown and then I realized the cap was a stand-in for a sleeping cap. We found a more suitable knitted hat, and she dutifully dons it every night before bed.

Today she bustled around the kitchen, bossing Elspeth, who takes her mothering with a grain of salt or a swat or scream. "Laura," she said to Elspeth and I interjected, "Merry, use her name. She doesn't understand."

"Elspeth," Merry addressed her sister obediently, and then under her breath added, "Laura!"

(I am just glad the videos haven't ruined her imaginary world. I discussed the movies with her and we talked about imagination, portrayal of character, etc., so the videos would not become prescriptive.)

Oh, as a PS, my friend found that bog salvia actually repels deer. It is a perennial but must be protected in a zone 6 winter. A few online catalogs sell it though it is a bit expensive. . .human urine seems like a more affordable option. And what a way to recycle!

Hope everyone out there is happy and deer free tonight!

Dolls, not deer, should be smug and satisfied.

First Summer Roses

Floribunda!


Phad Thai, Roses--who could complain?


Summer Girl

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Rain at last!

This afternoon, as Martin and I were bedding down a flat of allysum and marigolds, the rain began. Now, at 8:00, after some good pancakes (Buttermilk, Joy of Cooking--best recipe EVER) and some good company, it is still raining. The grass, which had begun to look crispy and brown, is deepening and trembling happily, greener and greener.

I took pictures, pictures of the embarrassment of roses that I gathered in my garden and placed on our kitchen table, and you will see those tomorrow.

But now, as Merry is putting Elephant to bed, I'll list quickly:

My Favorite Perennials So Far:
Tickseed: A sort of Coreopsis, bright yellow, cheerful and sturdy
Perennial Verbena: Spherical heads of nodding fushia
English Lavender (of course)--this is its second year with us and it's happy and makes me feel wealthy and fortunate)

My Favorite Rose So Far (scent and look):
(Keep in mind the David Austens have not yet bloomed, and while I love the happy-go-lucky, many headed floribundas, I have to go with the following rose, which I almost in my snobbiness did not buy, because it is not heirloom and is for the block-headed rose gardener. It is my SUBZERO white. It smells lovely, its growth habit is so far graceful, and I must add that it needs no over-winter-protective-mulching at all. I fully expect the David Austens to live up to expectations when they do bloom, but so far I must wholeheartedly recommend the rather plebeian, cheat-no-work, Subzero.)

My Favorite Annual:
The MARIGOLD, of course, for its fiesta colors, rich, evocative smell, and its ability to ward off nasty bugs. A runner-up is the ANNUAL VERBENA, with its spreading tendencies, fast growth rate, lacy leaves, and its crazily bright fuchsia color. And planted and sprouted quickly, the ZINNIAS promise a party before too long. I'll never forget one of my most tantalizing views of a garden; we were tooling through the hill country in Texas and as we passed a white house and yard I glimpsed a vision of glory: a cutting garden, full of zinnias, in full riot.

My Favorite Herb:
This is hard. I love the way mint takes over like breeding mice. I love the sturdy stalks and high-use of rosemary; I now love Feverfew, with its tight buds and white flowers. My spreading oregano is happy and lush and at hand for spaghetti sauces, and the basil I grew from seed is now drinking in the rain outside. Lavender is wonderful. . .tomorrow I intend to invest in some lemonbalm and Martin is beside himself waiting for his Holy/Thai Basil seeds from Seeds of Change. . .What is your favorite?

The Weed I Thought I Hated (and Mostly Still Do:)
Our hill was covered in Stinging Nettles. After one encounter with their lethally hairy stalks and prickly leaves, you too would loathe the nettle from the bottom of your heart. My mother and I spent much of one day digging up nettles, only to see them poke up again with a sprinkle or two.
So I did some research, and while looking for ways to kill the nettle DEAD for GOOD, I encountered enough passionate nettle lovers to make me reconsider my slavering hatred. Nettles serve purposes from tea to soups to treatment for the terminally ill to natural pesticides and compost enhancers (they speed decomposition). A more bizarre use is flogging Arthritis sufferers with the nettles. Odd, yes. And birds and other wildlife love the nettle's flowers. I suppose they are more popular in England that they are here in Pennsylvania. This praise-worthy versatility of the nettle has not completely redeemed it in my books for my hill, since being stung inadvertently or comforting their children after they tromp blithely on a nettle severely overshadows the nettle's virtue.

Oh, by the by, I did think it a great idea to have a Garden Show here at Wazoo, like the art show, except full of your gardening pictures. I know I would love to see the gardening efforts of everyone here, from the desert to the city to the countryside. And remember, this is loosely defined, so if you have a houseplant arrangement you love, or a garden made out of scrap metal, or a pleasant rockery like Paddington Bear, all is welcome. Perhaps we'll hold it in early July? What do you think?

First Summer Rose, But No Picture, Too Happy

No energy to post pictures. But I will.

For now, this telegraph-like entry: Roses blooming profusely. Smell of honeysuckle wafting into my office window. Badminton games until dark (first one to miss scoops ice-cream: inevitably, me).

In an attempt to kill ugly white flies eating one shrub rose, I rub it with undiluted Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap. Bad, bad idea. Bad idea! Kill rose buds instead. Buy flats of marigolds and allysum, hope to scare away the bugs with smells (also made Martin stand around after mowing our yard, but the bugs just flocked all over him as if he were slicked up with maple syrup). Also, nestle crushed garlic heads in crooks of the rose branches. Leave out dishes of Guinness for the slugs. Feel a bit like a witch doctor.

Cause of bad sentence construction? Aftermath of ten children visiting, gooping about in sprinkler, mud, and sand pit that is now (hurrah!) all that is left of our pool. Also transplanted ferns in humid, must have been 90 degree temperature. Martin made Pad Thai and also Thai Basil Chicken. Lovely families bearing children leave. We polish off bottle of white wine. Now, barely cognizant.

Delightful, hot summer. Hope it rains soon.

Pictures soon. Merry waits up though bone weary for my goodnight, then falls asleep immediately. Nasty white flies, horrid June bugs, grateful for life in general, wildly grateful for mine.

PS. First summer rose, vibrant hot pink, color of 1980's prom dress, in a vase on my dining room table.