Zinnias

I planted the first wave of zinnia seeds yesterday, and if they haven't been washed away by the rain, we'll soon have more


I wanted to name our third daughter Zinnia (at R.Robinson's brilliant suggestion), but it was vetoed. I vetoed Martin's suggestion of "Jemima" (too many pancakes and Jemima Puddleduck), so all's fair. Still, Zinnia would have made one heck of a name.

Line the Way

Hoorah! Martin used landscape fabric and about 300 stones (he collected in the graveyard, etc.) to line one path of our garden. Our friend Luis then helped us out and filled the paths with mulch. We're RATHER pleased with our first path!



So here's our side garden last spring:

Here it is this spring (a wreck):

And here it is this morning, after a terribly hard rain and thunder and lightning that blinked the electricity during breakfast. (Click on picture for better viewing.)

The mess in the left corner is the children's garden in progress, which will feature a river/sand bed with trickling water, huge boulders and stumps, and sunflowers and cherry tomatoes rambling over everything (and maybe a pumpkin vine or two).

P.S. We didn't have to toil to the lengths of my sister and husband; they live literally in the middle of the desert in Arizona, surrounded by miles of sand and mesas on the horizon. Please see their remarkable results (Luke at one point actually Shopvacced the garden after a spring dust storm!) at Heather's blog.

First Bouquet of Spring

This bouquet is for you, Aunt Kara;
(sage, roses, chives)

as well as this baby's wave

and this peony child--
All for you, beautiful one

Beatrix and Bouquet 1

Beatrix and Sage, Roses Chives

Stone Crazy

Well, I'm up late. I fell asleep for five minutes around 9:30 after reading to Merry, only to get up again to wash dinner dishes and wait for Kim's brother, Kenton, who drove in from Baltimore.

After cleaning up, I watched the first half of a DVD I've been eagerly anticipating. It's Stone Rising: The Work of Dan Snow, and I bought it after reading Dan's book, In the Company of Stone, which I checked out from the local library.

Dan is a Vermont dry-stacked stone waller. That job title doesn't quite convey what's perfectly clear from the video and the book: Dan is an artist of the first order, a philosopher, and maybe even a mystic (he muses about the "inner life" of stones and their languages, energies, and desires).

And his work is outstanding. The guy builds traditional New England stone walls, sure, but then there are walls that lead me to believe he's been necromancing M.C. Escher. He's done grottos, silos, ampitheaters. Check him out.

I'm a Dan Snow wannabe. And I've been collecting stone for use around the garden. In our Subaru. That might partially account for the broken axles we had fixed last fall.



I built a firepit nearly two years ago made from a bunch of smaller, flatish stones Kim and I gathered from a nearby road-making project. I don't know how Kim felt about standing next to a busy state highway, arms full of rocks, but I felt exposed--as if the rocks were, oh, I don't know, body parts, or maybe dirty magazines.

The firepit turned out well (after I somehow moved load after load down our steep hill via wheelbarrow). Better down than up the hill.

BUT, I mortared the stones. Dan Snow, I'm asking for your forgiveness. Dan thinks mortaring the stones is like chaining them to each other, deadening them so they can't move, change, become whatever they're supposed to become.



I dig up rocks in the yard when we make a new bed or set fence posts. Most are about the size of Yukon potatoes. Some are more like cabbage heads (er, if a cabbage were squarer). I've gotten a couple the size of a Gutenberg Bible. But they're not enough to satisfy me.

For a while I picked up rockfall from a railroad cut, but that got dangerous. I mean, all those boulders strewn between the cliff face and the tracks (15 feet, max)--uh, they didn't grow there. I'm obsessed wtih stone (and bricks, but that's another story), but I'm not wild about blunt force trauma to the head.

So I collect from safer places now. I've got one really great site, at woods edge near a cemetery. No, I'm not hauling headstones.



I seek permission now, too, which has emboldened me. I still look like a wild man, wind blown, sometimes rain drenched or snow covered, heaving rocks half my weight into the back of the car as relatives of the dearly departed meander respectfully between plots, flowers in hand.

But now I'm a wild man in no danger of a lawsuit.

I need more projects like I need a hole in the head (from a plumetting rock?), but I'm anxious to put my stone piles to use: I want to line our garden beds with smaller stones, and eventually I'm going to try my hand at dry-stacking a small retaining wall.

I'm not worthy, Dan Snow, but I'm trying.

Martin

Lush Birds, Lush Nursery

A jaunt down country roads, up and down green hills and past small farms, takes us to our favorite local nursery, Shields Flowers and Herbs. It is exactly to my liking: rambling, lush, and wildly creative. Besides organically grown heirloom tomatoes and vegetables, I save my pocket money for Sheild's incredible selection of herbs, rarish and common. Elspeth teeters after the peacocks, who by all accounts, guard the lavendar and wysteria and bamboo better than the fiercest watch dogs--and apparently there are so many that the owners seem fairly unconcerned at the loss of one of these gaudy creatures. Take, for instance, the resignation with which the Sheild's employee removed the carcass of the peacock that perished with a sickening THUMP in the road. "It happens all the time," she said. The peacocks strut all over the variegated sage and Thai basil and scented geraniums.

Add to this that Shields has just added their own wine cellar and you've got quite a treat of an outing.

Sheep, Rain, Baaaaad Weather

A regular thunderstorm blew up a few minutes ago, complete with mighty winds that ripped through our porch plants and sent me running outside to retrieve the stroller. Merry sang to Beatrix on the bed, safely inside; we'd just finished reading a pre-nap bit of L. I. Wilder's "The First Four Years." The happiest books are over (save the locust plague, tornadoes, fire, etc., etc.) and I know what's coming for Laura and Almanzo: sickness, bankruptcy, you name it.

I bungled the stroller up the stairs but the tools were left out in the chaos, along with the last of the numerous tomatoes in their pots. I kicked off my mud-caked shoes and slammed the door safely on the blustery weather. We've had mud, mud, mud, and cold weather, and I do believe I've forgotten what crumbly, dry soil feels like. Oh, I'm glad I'm not a real farmer, and that the when thunderstorms blow up out of nowhere my heart does not sink irretrievably into the mud at the thought of all the tender seedlings we planted this morning (we did, but we don't derive our livelihood from them).

Our summer potlucks are in full swing, though, every Tuesday, where adults are outnumbered by children and we are surrounded by good people and even better food, so there's a proof that summer is here, even if the weather doesn't indicate holiday.

And we got ourselves down to the annual Sheep and Fiber Festival last weekend, where Elspeth fed the embarrassingly clipped ewes

and we sang in a wind that threatened to tear the awning off the courthouse steps. Merry played drums, Elspeth kicked her feet, and we tried to stay in tune.

Thistle Hill, Birthdays, and So ON

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO. . .


The sky actually boasts a lovely blue color today. This bodes well; ever since Martin's parents arrived, we've had cloudy, rainy day upon miserable, cool, wet day. I have been able to clean up the garden and work well-rotted compost into the vegetable patch. Our porch is covered in mud and exciting plants in nursery pots ready to plant: heliotrope, heirloom tomatoes, herbs. I even bought myself a blueberry bush, so now we have raspberries, strawberries, blackberries, and blue to look forward to this summer! I even attacked Thistle Hill and weeding uncovered the roses, blackberries, wildflowers, mint and vinca I planted last summer. Notice the look of resigned disgust on my face. Weeding a hill chockablock full of stinging nettles: not the sweetest cup of tea.

Martin and Dad have dipped muddy water out of the post holes twiceto continue their work with a vengeance. Even kind friend Kevin stopped by to assist in the work, and the fence is beginning to take shape.


The kiddos enjoyed slogging through our jungle of a yard to throw rocks into the creek.
Merry escaped a dip into the swollen waters.

Sister Heather, despite a horrible hospital stay where Eclampsia loomed, arrived home safely with sweet Eliora.

Last, but certainly not least, I'd like to say a SUPER BIRTHDAY to my dear Auntie Phyllis--your nieces adored you first
And your grand nieces adore you now!

M U D

Mucking about in spring mud

Planting a shasta in the rain

among budded roses
Greens so vibrant they tremble

Must dig deeper

despite rocks (the fence in progress)

A row of holes--a rather hefty gopher

do NOT wear your shoes into the house, darling

take a bath

and clean, rather exhausted, purring

dream of sunnier days

GOOD NEWS

IT'LL HAVE TO BE A TELEGRAM ENTRY, SINCE I ONLY HAVE ONE HAND AT THE MOMENT: SLEEPING BABY IN OTHER.






LOVELY SISTER HEATHER GAVE BIRTH LAST NIGHT TO HEALTHY TINY ELIORA LYNN. GAVE US A BIT OF A SCARE--HEATHER, ON OXYGYN, MEDIVACED TO FLAGSTAFF HOSPITAL RE: CHANCE OF PRECLAMPSIA--BUT ALL'S WELL--EVERYONE HEALTHY. ANOTHER GIRL TO JOIN THE WOMAN POWER FORCES! HOORAH!



WEEDED RASPBERRIES YESTERDAY--PROLIFERATING--FREE LOVING BERRIES ROOTING THEMSELVES IN OUR THISTLE HILL. YUM. AND THERE'S A PICKET FENCE UNDERWAY. . . .



QUESTION: CAN ANYONE RECOMMEND A TRULY AMAZING TROWEL?
I CAN ONLY FIND CHEAP, BENDABLE KINDS. MUST BE REALLY TOUGH (WITHSTAND OBNOXIOUS WEEDS AND CLAY), SEXY, AND DEPENDABLE IN A SWEET WAY--LIKE MARTIN.

Stew

Our celebrating, almost "too-too" Spirea, hung over by rain

Our little corner of Pennsylvania dawned rather cold and gloomy this morning. The birds are still busy and giddy over the one strawberry patch I forgot to net last night; they are not affected by the deep internal sighs that accompany turning on the heat in mid May.

Still, in honor of my in-laws and the silly weather, I unwrapped some beef. Mind you, cooking a bloody slab of beef is not a celebration in most American homes, but a way of life. (Cue out-of-context Aaron Copland music: BEEF! IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER!)

But for us, who try to be responsible eaters and who are almost-solely-vegetarian (for ethical and health reasons) and buy only local/organic/non-tampered-with meat, a slab of beef is a rare occasion indeed. This particular beef came from a gorgeous, long-haired, happy highland cow from a local farm. The proprietors of the Strath an De Farm generously drove us around their farm so our girls could see the source of their food and we could enjoy their vintage farm implements. From our seat in the back of a wagon, we soaked in the deep greens of their land and the grace of their Scottish highland cattle.

Today I cubed the beef and browned it in olive oil and cornmeal; I crumbled in dried thyme and parsley from last summer's harvests, and I left it and an assortment of delightful vegetables to simmer slowly, filling the house with warmth. Beatrix slept soundly through all; Merry and Elspeth were quiet and content. Lovely.

Suprised by

The front garden, in progress. . .


I've been chatting about compost with my father-in-law. Earthworms, weeding, nettles, rocks and bricks--these are the topics about which we ruminate. We wax eloquent about trellises and rare fencing.

Never in my wildest young dreams would I have predicted these as likely topics of conversation.

My mother is no gardener. She opts for the pots of ice pansies on the porch and sticks to indoor greenery for the most part. My father, though he loves azaleas and showed an unexpected vehemence of opinion when my mother mercilessly hacked them back one spring, is as likely to pick up a shovel and break sod as he is to pick up a knife and skin a raccoon.

Growing up in Kenya's bustling capital city, we enjoyed a postage-stamp backyard, backed by a dense thorn hedge to keep out thieves (this proved unsuccessful, since we were robbed one night as we slept). Bougainvillea and morning glories crept unbidden up the hedges. We had a tiny, covered patio where we drank tea every afternoon and enjoyed our flower beds. I don't think my mother ever had to dirty her hands over the flower beds, though; she picked out the plants, drove them home, and placed them in their pots over the dirt. And then our gardener popped in and planted them all.

Once our Somali neighbor hired me to do an hour of gardening. I turned up with flowered scarf around my neck and a ridiculous sunhat. She fixed me with a stare and commented on my overdressing. I poked at the soil for a few moments, but it was awfully hot and I don't believe the experience stood up to my picture of the genteel English lady gardener with pruners in gloved hand.

My husband grew up in the suburbs of Houston. He sweated through summer days at his parent's hands, mowing lawns and raking up cottonwood leaves. One summer he joined a team of landscapers, mostly made up of illegal immigrants, and he experienced what it is like to work as an illegal immigrant: long, unfair hours, little breaks, and back-breaking labor. He stuck it out for a week or so, dropping into bed shortly after supper until he quit.

So it may have come as somewhat of a shock to our folks when we bought 3/4 of an acre of sloping Pennsylvania land, rubbed our hands in glee, and began to dig up sod. My parents, who value "get-up-and-move" (in 25 years of marriage, they're on their 26th house together) looked askance as we planted trees and seemed to settle down for the long haul.

Here's the secret, though, that gardeners know: gardening is not genteel--it's sweaty work--and through the sweat and the frustrations of weeds and bad bugs who want to eat the roses, joy keeps surprising us. Joy surprises us in the hops of a robin who, in friendly fashion, follows us down rows of newly turned soil. Joy surprises us when, at the end of a day of hard summer work, twilight illuminates the glow of a certain flower's petals and deepens the greens of tomato leaves. When I find myself in a tizzy over stupid daily details, a good hour in the garden refreshes my soul and renews my perspective. Gardening invigorates imagination and relaxes us to stand for a moment, soaking in the impossible reality of joy.


Last summer, side garden

It's a secret made better because I discovered it myself, as an adult. It's a secret my girls are growing up believing, even taking for granted, and that's good too. Someday I hope they'll make it their own.



Happy mother's day, all you mamas.

Lots to Do

Late summer 2007: too many zinnias to count, too many zucchini.


Autumn catapults us into crazy, busy schedules, and this was our excuse for not cleaning up our garden last year. And then I was in the throws of morning sickness, which made me happy to see the white cold frosting all our herbs, which scents made me want to wilt and sicken.

We're just now catching up; our garden was rather daunting at first, but Martin's been off for a few days now and we're making progress.

But we've got a lot to do. Martin's been weeding for days on end, and the once messy beds are shaping up. Finally, from our sunroom windows, we see a pattern of symmetrical paths forming; we've got the fabric and the mulch to make our paths a reality. The compost is well rotted, and the perennials are back (I lost two roses to the winter).

Truly, I'd hesitate to show you the following if I weren't sure of forthcoming amazing "AFTER" pictures that will hopefully knock your wellingtons clean off.




But we've got a rather long, tantalizing list of unfulfilled goals.

And here's the reason why:


A fairly compelling reason to let a few weeds grow, all in all.

Beatrix slept happily in her stroller by the compost and strawberries while Merry hauled bricks and I mowed the grass. She's a naturalist baby for sure, true to her namesake.