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

__________

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.

CONTRIBUTOR BOOK REVIEW: UNLOCKING THE SKY BY SETH SHULMAN

Unlocking the Sky:
Glenn Hammond Curtiss and the Race to Invent the Airplane
Seth Shulman
Harper Perennial; Reprint edition (September 16, 2003)

Centered loosely around an experiment to get Professor Langley’s famed failure of a flying machine (often dubbed Langley’s Folly) off the ground, some 11 years after its fateful demise, Unlocking the Sky is an interesting framed narrative that reconsiders both the history of aviation as well as our contemporary approach to invention and discovery.

For the most part, it succeeds wonderfully, using this narrative device to tell the story of Glenn Hammond Curtiss, who is arguably one of the most important figures to modern aviation— yet someone who was more comfortable tinkering in his workshop than stepping into the limelight. For this reason, this treatment that centers on various experiments and airplane constructions is a brilliant way to capture a man who was at home in these situations. Unlocking the Sky treats readers to an amazing era of aviation history and discovery in the way that it must have been interesting to the people involved— discussing ideas, adjusting the size of wings and propellers, hoping the wind will die down, and the like. We are placed in the workshop with these pioneers of aviation to experience the wonder of getting a piloted airplane to fly, and turn, and land— all to the cheers and roars of the entire world watching.

What did I learn from Unlocking? First off, Orville and Wilbur Wright were pretty bizarre, and were definitely jerks. Second off, Curtiss invented a variety of things that are still in use in aviation today— the seaplane, ailerons, landing gear, etc., etc. So, next time you read Jimmy Buffett’s Where is Joe Merchant, see that seaplane on the cover and think to yourself, “boy, that would be great to own a seaplane,” thank Curtiss (he’s dead now, but thank him in spirit), as well as Buffett’s cover artist.

As someone who is relatively terrified of flying, I was hoping that Unlocking the Sky could actually unlock the sky and make me want to get on an airplane. If this is your hope as well, might I suggest valium or a hypnotist? However, if you are hoping for an easy summer read that might give you some learnin’ in an interesting way, Unlocking the Sky will only cost you a couple of sittings.

In other news, I am drafting a letter to Harper Collins Publishing to offer a lawsuit based on their false advertising— as the sky still remains firmly locked for me.

The drawbacks to the book are twofold. At times, despite its attention to an all-American figure of an under-educated yet brilliant hands-on inventor, the voice gets a bit pretentious and overblown at times. Personally, I am no fan of this type of writing— especially in a biography— but it also doesn’t gibe well with the formation of the framed narrative and flashbacks that work so hard to present Curtiss in his true environment.

The other problem, which I have found in other biographies (or biography-type works as this isn’t truly a bio) is that it gets stuck on its thesis. In order for us to be interested in these people, the author needs to give us something to hook our teeth into besides “this person was alive.” In the case of Pollock it was “he was a lonely and depressed drunk,” and after a while reading Jackson Pollock; An American Saga I kept repeating to myself “I get it, I get it, I get it.”

Here, the messages are: “Orville and Wilbur Wright were jerks, Curtiss was a kind and generous spirit, and all inventions are an accumulation of ideas— an evolution of group thinking over time— not just a lone ‘a ha!’ in a lab someplace.”

At times during Unlocking, I thought “I get it, I get it, I get it.”

What is perhaps the most interesting facet of the book, besides the crafted storytelling, are the questions it poses regarding technological progress, invention, patents, and patent law. Our system of protecting ideas, meant to foster advancement of technologies, oftentimes becomes a hindrance to progress. In the case of the airplane, the Wright brothers’ patent was so broad they expected to receive royalties on any manned airplane. Far from promoting advancements in a new technology, this legally-imposed monopoly had people in great legal battles and personal turmoil during their development of the technologies that would lead to the jets and airplanes we have today.

It makes one wonder in today’s climate of searching out medical advancements and environmental solutions if the patent laws as they stand don’t fully suit our needs. As we all know, once lawyers and corporations get involved, it is hard to compete with their resources and money— even if you are in the right. Indeed, Curtiss was ordered to stop working on airplanes more than once by judges and the letter of the law, and without the help of Henry Ford’s legal team would have never got many of his ideas off the ground— literally.

Excuse me, I couldn’t resist.

Finally, as with all biographical material, I return to the book De Kooning: An American Master. In a similar approach, the authors attempt to get the reader into the studio to see de Kooning at work; at home with his art and struggles with creating powerful works. Shulman uses a similar tactic here in trying to get the reader into the workshop, centered on some pivotal experiments, and using these as a point of departure for presenting back story. De Kooning, is pulled off much, much better— the difference? Unlocking the Sky will cost you a few days of reading this summer, De Kooning, you will be lugging around to the pool and the beach until Labor Day.

Reviewed by Kurt Eidsvig
Eidsvig is an important contributor to Wazoo. Eidsvig, we have seen your art. We have seen your reviews. Where are your poems?

To hear Eidsvig's poems, attend one of his Boston Poetry Slams or satisfy yourself at his website, www.kurtcoleeidsvig.com.

Procrastination

Here's a snap, borrowed from my Uncle's blog, of my sister and me with my aunt and grandparents. I think Elspeth looks just like me and Heather looks a great deal like Merry, but maybe I'm dreaming.

Yes, I'm procrastinating. There are a handful of jobs to do outside before we leave for Ohio tomorrow morning. Among them, and the one I like least and dread most, is watering the plants and seeds. Why do I hate this? It is SLOW (about an hour and a half) and involves dragging the hose like a grumpy toddler's arm place to place to endless place. The fact that I'm nurturing plants, and can listen to the birds singing, lawnmowers humming, etc. doesn't make a spot of difference to me (at this particular moment). It is tedious.

Wazoo Farm received a general clean-up in the past two days; I heaped junk for the sanitation crew and weed-whacked and Martin pulled the mower up and down the hill (too steep for the riding mower WITH chains) until he about fainted. But things are looking better. Tomatoes, peppers, and strawberries are in. Herbs, zinnias, and the rest of my seeds go in after our return. I'll post snaps in a few days.

Here's a mystery. Johnny Appleseed, Miss Rumphius--all their whimsical lot--just toss seeds into crevices and crannies, and bingo! Apple trees and lupines appear. Not so for me. First I soak the lupine seeds all day, sow them after dark, and hope wildly for the best. Tossing seeds. Does it really, truly work? And after all our work pulling endless thistles and digging the hill the thistles are back. Nasty critters. You can actually buy thistles and plant them for salads and medical remedies. Anyone want mine?

The next big job for us is installing a fence. This is proving to be rather on the expensive side, but more to the point, who would like to come out and help Martin? I'll be fixing great food, mixed drinks, and cold ice baths for the workees. Any takers? Come now, post-hole digging in clay soil is FUN. Alright, but working with Martin IS fun. Here's a shout-out to Martin's DAD. Help! (The house next to us may be for sale). . .

Enough procrastination. The poor thirsty plants are begging for attention, as is Elspeth, who is supposed to be sleeping at this moment in her hot room in her warm crib. Life is very, very hard when you're only seventeen months old.

NAME THIS PEST!

Any etymologists or gardeners out there who can help me?

On my strawberry plants, along the stems, I've noted (and squashed) little worms hidden in a mess of frothy white bubbles. The bubbles are the consistency of saliva, and it looks for all the world that my strawberry plants are going rabid.

Then, as I was harvesting mint this evening, I noted again the same slimy froth (eggs???) along with the tiny little whitish/greenish worms.

Anyone know what these are?

And anyone know of a good organic/natural spray or solution?

YUCK! HELP ME, please!!!

Time

Here in Ohio, in the house where I remember my Nana and Grandpa, and now where my Grandpa says little and sleeps much, and has been remarried for much of a decade to a lovely, gentle person, here in this place:

As I sat on a folding chair in the basement, feeding Elspeth to sleep last night, I looked at the laundry line strung between posts. Laundry pins stood in a row like little lonely soldiers. I imagined my Nana's fingers, strong and swift, clipping up printed sheets, efficient and precise. And upstairs I remembered the voices of my great aunts and uncles as they clustered in the living room, the clatter of coffee cups, the burbling of the coffee pot.

My siblings and I used to play shuffleboard in the basement, amongst my Nana's endless rock collections, paint supplies, canvases.

But then, as I fed Elspeth and put her down to sleep, Merry danced about my sleeping, silent Grandpa. Later that evening Mom and I soaped and rinsed dishes side by side, and I remembered my Grandpa methodically rinsing every dish, stacking and then washing as my Nana put on a pot of coffee and laughter filled the kitchen.

Once again the incredible sense of disconnect, the sense that what is past is not past after all, the sense that time is nothing but an illusion--this hangs in the air. Deep inside I can't help but feel that time, the death of my great aunts and uncles and grandparents, the fading of my Grandpa--all this is real, but it is not all. Our Western understanding of time, this belief that all is linear, these words of "past, present, future; before, now, then--" all these do us a disservice. They are small words, labels we stamp on mystery, words that consign processes and people as impossibly finite.

Somewhere I feel that we are all still living together, in a place where time makes no difference, where death and birth are just memories of a place long ago, and the now, the now with everyone we love, is all there is, forever. It's not sentimentality, or a wish for what can never be, or a trembling silly vision of faces in the sky. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but it is real. You can call it heaven if you want, but I feel again, as I often do, that it is already present, just beyond me, but here already if I could only touch it.

But I do hear now Martin playing a song, and I did hear just two minutes ago my Grandpa say words out loud in his old, strong voice.

Gardening at 9:30 pm

Summer has so far squashed any semblance of a normal schedule for me, though I am not complaining. I have had little or no time to write between trips and special days, family, friends, and the endless gardening.

Today: though the sky threatened rain, we loaded an impossibly good picnic into the car and headed for Ohiopyle Park. With my parents we hiked past Cucumber Falls down through shady paths lined with rhododendrons and ambled over large flat rocks that skimmed the river. Reference for scenery: Last of the Mohicans; McClowsky's coastal Maine; Swiss Family Robinson. See: Crazy kayak man with beach ball zipped up in his kayak so he can flip in the air.

Merry and Grandaddy climbed up the rocks and ducked behind the falls. They waved through a curtain of moving white water.

Once again, ice-cream at the Firefly Grill.

Last weekend: fire in the pit and hobo meals; Mom tore furiously at our hill until it was bald, and we madly seeded it with wild flower seeds last night.

Music of the Moment: Kings of Convenience
Movie of the Moment: Flushed Away
Book Rediscovered: Horse and His Boy, by CS Lewis (read in my father's voice to my own daughter)
Wishes: A Fence, a Slotted Toast Tray, a brick path, a tropical fruit smoothie
Good things: The girls, covered in dirt; Sheep and Fiber Festival in Waynesburg, Pennsylvania; Nettle juice

Tomorrow, we'll visit my ill Grandpa in Ohio, so I'll likely not write for a day or two. But do stay posted as I have more pictures on the line-up. . .

When Our Parents Were Younger Than We Are

Since the Guest Blogger seems to be distracted with other petty issues, such as his new summer class and the twenty trees that arrived while I am cooling my heels in Baltimore, I thought I'd jump on and post a picture.

So here's a snap of my parents when they were younger than Martin and I are now. They are just married, playing Monopoly:

These snaps always bemuse me a little, especially ones of my grandmothers at seventeen or twenty, in swimming suits or with dogs, giddy with being young and moving about in gorgeous arms and legs and glamorous hair. Puts time in perspective.

Good luck, guest blogger, planting those trees.

Tea for the Tillerman

This is Martin--I'm guest blogging for Kim this week.

So, we finally got our act together and borrowed a tiller. Here's the result so far:



Let me tell you, as a tiller novice, I had no idea how carried away--literally--you can get with one of those machines. The tiller I borrowed is a rear tine, self-propelled Troy-Bilt model. I guess it's pretty standard. Its owner, John, showed me how to operate it properly, but as in all things, theoretical knowledge doesn't instantly translate into applied knowledge. As John explained, when you till over previously untilled land, like turf, you have to use the shallowest setting or the tiller won't dig into the ground at all. When that happens, the tines, which are probably turning ten times faster than the front wheels, become the wheels, and the tiller lurches forward suddenly, then takes off at approximately twenty miles per hour.

Of course this happened to me. Several times. The first couple times, I couldn't manage to tell my hands to loosen their grip on the handle, and the tiller dragged me across the lawn. I felt like I was in a three stooges routine--I just needed Curly or Moe to swat my face with a flat-blade shovel.

I've got the hang of it now, and I'm wondering how we ever got along without it. Thanks to Chris and Pete for encouraging us to quit laboring over sod and borrow one of these babies.

Speaking of babies: Happy Mother's Day (a day late now) to all you ... mothers.