There are stirrings of life on my mental Wazoo Farm as I ease the mouse cursor over Gurney's Nursery's happy images of tender male asparagus, doting lily of the valley, potpourric lavender, phallic Red Hot Pokers and stripey, muscular rhubarb stalks. Botany-intoxication floods warmly through me as I add:
Storm Petunia ("Legendary Performance!")
Hopa crabapple ("Like a Rosy Bouquet")
Hybrid tea roses ("elegant summer blooms")
Russian Sage ("Decidedly Fragrant Foliage")
And who can resist the "Blooming-est Daylily Ever?"
Who indeed?
It would be madness, I tell myself, not to click all these bright and varied plants! They can be mine! Click the mouse, by George, buy the lot! I can just see smell the hybrid teas, can feel the earlobes of the snapdragons, can feel within the core of my very being the wild excitement of Summer Pastel Yarrow's "Explosion of Color!"
O, Gurney's Seed & Nursery Co. has got me pegged. I drool all over the keyboard in undisguised plant lust as I tap in the plant codes.
"Forget the credit card balance!" I mutter under my breath. "Forget the drafts and the heating bill! Forget the mice problem! Forget the mortgage payment!" I want lilies, bleeding heart, balloon flower, and Mr. Lincoln the lovely hybrid tea!
I WANT SPRING! And I want to feel earthworms wiggling around my fingers and soil caking on my feet and blisters on my hands. I want these things and I want truckloads of profusely blooming perennials for my beds.
Ah, reason. The virtue that saves lovers from suicide, mothers from tearing their hair, marriages from ruin, cars out of canyons, credit cards from soaring balances. I reduce quantities, blink back tears, erase items completely. I have whittled my list down to a reasonable amount, alas for Gurney's Nursery, good for our bank account. Wazoo Farm will still be Wazoo Farm with a few less roses.
Of course, I still have three catalogs to go. Seeds of Change is selling trees, now, and I want every packet of their zinnia seeds. Henry Fields has a sale. I still have to do my part for trees by joining the Arbor Society, and filling their coffers with my nonexistent money. And did I mention the heirloom tea rose catalog on its way to my door?
Seems my hands will not lack from blisters this spring after all. Whoopee!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The North Wind Doth Blow (Elephants in the Wind)
And we shall have snow--
And what will poor Robin do then, poor thing?
If you know the poem then you know the answer: poor Robin does what we all do--puts his head under his wing, poor thing.
Of course in Missoula, MT, where we gloriously dwelled for three years, everybody is out skiing and embracing the weather. Here in PA I am hunkered down watching the snow blow over Wazoo Farm.
What's the trick? One winter my sister said she was ready to meld with and form a happy relationship with the winter--all you have to do, she said, is relax every muscle you can--you'll lose the chill and you'll enjoy the cold at the same time. I have tried this, sitting in a car, waiting for the heater to fire up. I've battled against the urge to curl into a little tense ball, dense as a chestnut waiting under the snow. Once or twice I've even been able to accomplish the trick, and yes, it was effective. A sort of yoga for snowbound, cold people: it relaxed me, it centered me, it made me content. For a second, anyway.
Relaxing when you're cold is like trying to relax in the dentist's chair. Of course the way to relax in the dentist's chair is to imagine you're on an island sipping a ridiculous drink, or in a garden, or on your grandmother's knee. You don't relax by reconciling yourself and being happy about three or four hands shoved into your mouth and the whirs and scrapings. (I heard the history of dentistry--in sounds--on NPR today and I feel like there's nothing to complain about now).
Well, enough griping. Suffice it to say I'm indoors, enjoying the blowing snow and the sight of other people's tires spinning multiple times before they get traction.
Here's a song by Merry for the day (not often do you get phonics, religious devotion, multiple organs, and Valentine's Day in one perfect tune):
I wanna shine for Jesus
I gotta Valentine for Jesus
Open my hearts to Jesus
Sounds like a G but it's Jay-J-J-J!
I wanna J-J-J Jesus!
I wanna shine, Jesus!
I WANT JESUS!
Jesus sounds like a G
But he's just a Ja-Ja-Ja-Ja-Jesus!
Merry would be a fascinating field project for an anthropologist. She's a fine conglomeration of Episcopal (our and my parent's choice), Baptist (her TX grandparent's choice), Presbyterian (go figure) and Corneese.
Cornia is Merry's world, wherein the following characters dwell:
Elephant: indeterminate gender; always naughty and just on the brink of self-destruction
Cocoa: Elephant's father, and Merry's husband, who is a famous doctor, farmer, and what-not to boot. As far as I can tell, Cocoa is fairly level-headed but a bit of a fool when it comes to parenting.
Mano: Extra. I think he's Cocoa's brother.
Bodo, Godo, She ? Shitake?, etc: a crew of extras.
People in Cornia are rather wicked, I think. And of course therein lies the draw for Merry, who is by all accounts a very well-behaved child.
--You know WHAT? Merry says, eyes about to roll out of sockets.
--No.
--Elephant has been UP on the ROOF again.
--No!
--Yes! I said, Elephant, WHAT are you doing up on the ROOF? And he just jumped into the trees.
Well, you get the idea. Elephant is incorrigible, as my mother says--a sociopath at best, an absolute danger to society in truth.
Also, in Cornia, there is no God, or if there is, as Merry says, HE DOESN'T REALLY CARE WHAT YOU DO. I can't quite figure if there's government in Cornia, though I think perhaps there are jails, because I think Elephant has spent a few time-outs behind bars for some of his worse transgressions.
Besides keeping up with the goings-on of Elephant and his Cornia compadres, Merry freelances as a preacher, songwriter, dancer, and story-teller.
One day in IKEA, when she was three (this is after attending my in-law's Baptist church), Merry climbed onto a display and thrust her little fist in the air.
Jesus was born in MONTANA! she yelled.
He died for your sins on a cross in IOWA!
The passion and appropriate intonation with which she delivered her sermon brought a few people to tears and I can tell you with a triumphant heart that there were converts that day.
Oh, Merry Bear. What a funny mix you are: a soup, in fact, of all the odd and wonderful things that makes us all the botched-up, funny, graceful people. There is a wonderful liturgy about prophets and puzzled people; I googled until my googler was soggy and couldn't find it. But it's a wonderful mix, don't you think? We are usually puzzled, and rightly so, but once and a while there's a flash of inspiration, or God, and we are suddenly prophets. And in a way, a parent takes on a prophetic role every day, as does a friend to another friend: "You will be all right;" for instance; or "You are a creative, lovely person;" or even "You're a bad child." Naming people and situations is the same as prophesying.
So anything for Valentine's Day? Not really. It's cold and snowy; I stayed up late cutting out paper hearts for the members of Merry's preschool and then school was cancelled today. My father used to bring my sister and I roses and that was so nice, especially when the other girls seemed to be getting an embarrassment of flowers from boys (or, who knows? from themselves, perhaps). It seems just unfortunate that the advertising industry could have caused such a ridiculous hoo-ha all over the United States: disappointed lovers, lonely people, and money-spenders who pleased someone after all.
Well, Happy V Day. And more importantly, happy every day. Watch for elephants in the wind.
And what will poor Robin do then, poor thing?
If you know the poem then you know the answer: poor Robin does what we all do--puts his head under his wing, poor thing.
Of course in Missoula, MT, where we gloriously dwelled for three years, everybody is out skiing and embracing the weather. Here in PA I am hunkered down watching the snow blow over Wazoo Farm.
What's the trick? One winter my sister said she was ready to meld with and form a happy relationship with the winter--all you have to do, she said, is relax every muscle you can--you'll lose the chill and you'll enjoy the cold at the same time. I have tried this, sitting in a car, waiting for the heater to fire up. I've battled against the urge to curl into a little tense ball, dense as a chestnut waiting under the snow. Once or twice I've even been able to accomplish the trick, and yes, it was effective. A sort of yoga for snowbound, cold people: it relaxed me, it centered me, it made me content. For a second, anyway.
Relaxing when you're cold is like trying to relax in the dentist's chair. Of course the way to relax in the dentist's chair is to imagine you're on an island sipping a ridiculous drink, or in a garden, or on your grandmother's knee. You don't relax by reconciling yourself and being happy about three or four hands shoved into your mouth and the whirs and scrapings. (I heard the history of dentistry--in sounds--on NPR today and I feel like there's nothing to complain about now).
Well, enough griping. Suffice it to say I'm indoors, enjoying the blowing snow and the sight of other people's tires spinning multiple times before they get traction.
Here's a song by Merry for the day (not often do you get phonics, religious devotion, multiple organs, and Valentine's Day in one perfect tune):
I wanna shine for Jesus
I gotta Valentine for Jesus
Open my hearts to Jesus
Sounds like a G but it's Jay-J-J-J!
I wanna J-J-J Jesus!
I wanna shine, Jesus!
I WANT JESUS!
Jesus sounds like a G
But he's just a Ja-Ja-Ja-Ja-Jesus!
Merry would be a fascinating field project for an anthropologist. She's a fine conglomeration of Episcopal (our and my parent's choice), Baptist (her TX grandparent's choice), Presbyterian (go figure) and Corneese.
Cornia is Merry's world, wherein the following characters dwell:
Elephant: indeterminate gender; always naughty and just on the brink of self-destruction
Cocoa: Elephant's father, and Merry's husband, who is a famous doctor, farmer, and what-not to boot. As far as I can tell, Cocoa is fairly level-headed but a bit of a fool when it comes to parenting.
Mano: Extra. I think he's Cocoa's brother.
Bodo, Godo, She ? Shitake?, etc: a crew of extras.
People in Cornia are rather wicked, I think. And of course therein lies the draw for Merry, who is by all accounts a very well-behaved child.
--You know WHAT? Merry says, eyes about to roll out of sockets.
--No.
--Elephant has been UP on the ROOF again.
--No!
--Yes! I said, Elephant, WHAT are you doing up on the ROOF? And he just jumped into the trees.
Well, you get the idea. Elephant is incorrigible, as my mother says--a sociopath at best, an absolute danger to society in truth.
Also, in Cornia, there is no God, or if there is, as Merry says, HE DOESN'T REALLY CARE WHAT YOU DO. I can't quite figure if there's government in Cornia, though I think perhaps there are jails, because I think Elephant has spent a few time-outs behind bars for some of his worse transgressions.
Besides keeping up with the goings-on of Elephant and his Cornia compadres, Merry freelances as a preacher, songwriter, dancer, and story-teller.
One day in IKEA, when she was three (this is after attending my in-law's Baptist church), Merry climbed onto a display and thrust her little fist in the air.
Jesus was born in MONTANA! she yelled.
He died for your sins on a cross in IOWA!
The passion and appropriate intonation with which she delivered her sermon brought a few people to tears and I can tell you with a triumphant heart that there were converts that day.
Oh, Merry Bear. What a funny mix you are: a soup, in fact, of all the odd and wonderful things that makes us all the botched-up, funny, graceful people. There is a wonderful liturgy about prophets and puzzled people; I googled until my googler was soggy and couldn't find it. But it's a wonderful mix, don't you think? We are usually puzzled, and rightly so, but once and a while there's a flash of inspiration, or God, and we are suddenly prophets. And in a way, a parent takes on a prophetic role every day, as does a friend to another friend: "You will be all right;" for instance; or "You are a creative, lovely person;" or even "You're a bad child." Naming people and situations is the same as prophesying.
So anything for Valentine's Day? Not really. It's cold and snowy; I stayed up late cutting out paper hearts for the members of Merry's preschool and then school was cancelled today. My father used to bring my sister and I roses and that was so nice, especially when the other girls seemed to be getting an embarrassment of flowers from boys (or, who knows? from themselves, perhaps). It seems just unfortunate that the advertising industry could have caused such a ridiculous hoo-ha all over the United States: disappointed lovers, lonely people, and money-spenders who pleased someone after all.
Well, Happy V Day. And more importantly, happy every day. Watch for elephants in the wind.
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