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.

No, No, No, Yucky Dandelion

Wazoo Farm doesn't have much in the way of edibles yet. We've got a wild, independent bed of mint, a lot of fuzzy-headed thyme, a bit o rhubarb, and some volunteer, lacy baby dill sprouts.

One crop that has taken off, though, without any assistance from us, is our dandelion. How's the dandelion this year? our neighbors ask, leaning on our deer fence (a dangerous pastime). Well, we answer, gesturing to our yard, We were afraid the frost might get 'em, or the deer, but no siree, we're happy with our dandelion this year.

This is of course what would happen if we all were starving by spring and salivating for fresh, wild, tender greens. Instead, we're awfully spoiled and out of touch, picking up out-of-season lettuces at Giant Eagle and bagging them up in plastic. And so our neighbors tolerate us, despite the yellow discs that quickly become white globes of hated seeds, covering our organic, no-pesticide/poison garden.

Martin took the girls out all morning and weeded, and things are beginning to look a bit more organized. The mint bed was the worst: invasive species seemed to be battling; mint shoots twined around the deep tubers of the dandelions; Martin was frustrated though he and the area smelled as delicious as spiked lemonade.

So when life gives you lemons. . .well, let's just cut to the chase, shall we?

Martin heaped a tray full of dandelions and rinsed them in the sink, stems, greens and all. (Messy).

Now, I've heard about eating dandelions but I knew, somehow, though I'd never eaten them, that the longer the weeds are around (like nettles), the nastier they get. Well, these dandelions had been around a little while.

So we all sat down for dinner, and Martin brought to table a beautiful bowl of succulent dandelions sprouts. At first, you only tasted the butter and the onions. And then the dandelion juice spread into your mouth, and oh, baby, it was bad. Bitter. I actually spit mine out.

No, no, no, yucky dandelion. Think I'll wait for arugula.

Wild, Crazy Loon Calls in Wilderness: Ahhhhhh!

Last weekend, baking decadent double-dark chocolate cookie bars for the imminent eight-member family reunion the day after we returned from a wild packing-house week, I did the same crazy thing my mother once did to a rhubarb cake (a feat I used to shake my head in disbelief over). Curious, I watched as the cookies spread in great, muddy pools over the cookie sheet. Then my mother said, "What's this flour doing here?" This was the bowl of flour I had completely forgotten to blend with the wet ingredients. . .we scraped the fudgey mess back into the bowl and mixed it all up again. (I watched incredulously as my mother shoveled the semi-raw batter into her mouth. Not fair: she always warned us religiously not to eat raw dough; we'd get worms or salmonella; I've spent my entire life consistently turning down delicious tastes of raw dough. And I will continue, out of a sort of primal fear, despite the disillusioning vision of my mother possibly giving herself worms or salmonella.)


On Monday morning, the last of our family left. We said goodbye to my parents; my father was eager for the trip and my mother choked back tears (which always makes me feel like crying, too); then they drove off down the street on their five day trek across the country to Seattle. That morning found me yelling a greeting of sorts down the stairs to our guests (a father and his two-year old) from my seat on the toilet where I was also breastfeeding. . .

That afternoon I baked yet more for our twice-annual exam-week open house for Martin's students. This time I worked in the overripe, stinky bananas into a triple recipe of Joy's deliciously cakey quick bread. Shuffling through the freezer I found some bagged pecan bits my mother had left and sprinkled them freely over all three loaves. Better taste them, I thought, after all the loaves had been doused, and dabbed some of the pecans on my tongue. What home did these pecans enjoy prior to my freezer? Likely they were the leftovers from some Thanksgiving sweet potato or curry dish, for the pecans were mixed with salty chili pepper. Hoping that this would be an exciting and successful new twist on banana bread, I overcompensated by layering the chili powder topping with brown sugar and cinnamon.

Somebody, I heard, asked for the recipe. I heard this because I only made two appearances at the open house, one to haul off Elspeth to bed, and the other to redirect Merry, who had suddenly gone "wild" (in the words of one of Martin's bluntly-spoken students) upstairs to a quiet read while I breastfed marathon-feeding baby until I fell asleep.

Two more days of no-Martin all day and evening (practically) and I have my friends to thank for saving me from illegal substance abuse. So thanks to the members of the robust Elaine Society: Tonya, who stopped by for a chat with a gorgeous blanket she had sewed for B; Nancy, who whisks Merry away twice a week for the schooling I never give her and feel guilty about; Sally, who upon entering our house plucked B from my hands and held her even as she ate lunch, and who, to boot, took the crazy, always-in-trouble Elspeth (eating butter, scattering compost, hitting Merry) down our hill to the creek (yesterday) and then called this morning to offer to take her away in her boots to some undisclosed but presumably muddy place (right before she arrived Elspeth, who suddenly seems huge, rolled on the baby, the baby who squalled so pitifully that I felt like squalling myself). . . .

These sorts of friends are truly angelic. Thank God! for these women, and I mean that in the most grateful and humble way.

Tomorrow sees Martin finishing school. Thank God! Ditto! Ditto! The garden is overgrown with sod; we'll be lucky to find the strawberry plants underneath the weeds. . .Ah, but then, does it matter all that much? Summer is about to start, officially, yes, mama, yes. We've been saving the trip to Douglass Nursery (heirloom tomato seedlings and all) for a reward. And the weather, which has been grey, cold, and rainy all week, cannot stay that way for long. We've got enough salsa and cheese for a big party with good friends at some point soon, and we've got marshmallows for the fire pit and reserve ice cream in the downstairs freezer. All our red buds have bloomed and only one crab apple seems dead.

Summer. Starts. Tomorrow. Huzzah.

More Activity but then again, more Sleep than Expected

We've been sleeping more than could be hoped for. Beatrix is a wonderful dozer and a brilliant night baby.

This is fortunate, for there has been much activity. I took off with the three girls to help my parents pack up their house for their new adventure in Seattle. I have never seen the like before--so many people at their house as they wrapped and packed, and parties and big dinners and fun, fun, fun, and so much sorting and errands and craziness. At one point there were five children in the house; my father, maneuvering a piece of furniture through a doorway over a crawling baby, wryly muttered, "The moving brochure advises you to hire a babysitter while you pack." But what fun would that be?

The girls and I mellowed to Iron and Wine as we drove through glorious early spring back to PA--as I drove, with the three girls lined up in the back of the car, I suddenly realized, by Jove, I have three children. What a strange and good thing.

Back to town, a whirl of unpacking, and now we have a family reunion at our house--all my mother's five-sibling family, bar one sibling--and Martin's final exam week next week. It's busy and jolly.

And here's some happy news, too--Beatrix LOVES the outdoors; the porch is ready and gorgeous; so is the back deck; the lawn is partially mown; the perennials are all greening and shooting and promising. All our trees except two show happy growing and blooming signs; the world smells lovely and perfect.

Little Girls (Thank heaven for)

Beatrix is a Dream Baby

It's true, she really is a dream baby. And strong, by Diana--I'm so proud of another strong little woman--picks her head and neck up like a 3-month old and takes everything in like a sage old medicine woman. She's going to make a great gardener and naturalist-baby and dirt-eater and sun-lover.

I've been back in the garden. It's intoxicating when the weeds don't choke my enthusiasm.

Pictures soon, of the gaudy forsythia, and Beatrix, and her sisters, and Martin's dumptruck loads of mulch and sand. Projects abound. He's got three more weeks of school and then we'll all be in the garden, all day, for endless days. The Russian Sage is returning, the tulips bloom, and the deer fence is up. Meals arrive with happy regularity at our doorstep (Cheers to the Mennonites!!!) And gardening is so much easier without a baby inside.

Hair, and how!

Another great picture from Alyson.

Beatrix ... Hurrah!

Thanks to our friend Alyson Case for these lovely photos.

Beatrix is born!

This morning, Sunday, at 7:45, we welcomed Beatrix Fern to the world. Mom and daughter are healthy, tired, and happy--they're both sleeping soundly now, Bea on Kim's bosom.

She weighed just shy of eight pounds at birth (7lbs, 14oz) and measured 20 inches from end to end. She's got a little smushed nose (which seems to be unsmushing itself), a round face, alert blue eyes, and a full head of dark brown hair.

But don't count on a brunette; I think I see blonde roots!

Labor was longer than either Kim or I expected (she outlasted Merry and Elspeth), and delivery was painful but fast. I think she was out in four or five good pushes.

Our thanks to all of you who supported us in this, whether through kind words, prayers, gifts, or a little of everything. We'll post pictures when we're able.

Oh, and for those who don't know: Kim and Bea share a birthday!

Happy Inutero

At the midwife's office yesterday: "Step back a minute. . .If that baby was any lower, she'd fall out!"

I put B in the sun to attempt to encourage her to join the rest of us in the spring. . .though the midwife offered to make her come last night, we've decided to give her a little more space to make up her own mind.

Ah, the slightly bizarre belly pictures. Why do we feel the need to document this common but always flabbergasting state of being? (And why didn't I clean my mirror of Elspeth's many fingerprints before snapping away?)

Immmmm

Hey, naturalist baby: daffodils sprucing, crocus blooms! Grass greening--buds near bursting--why linger so long in hot gloom? Come, join hands with your bright sisters, welcome spring, earthworm and glossy robin!

Instead of Baby, New Trees Arrive

Here's a little glimpse of Easter morning. Please note that nobody is brushed or bathed, but we managed a jolly, early Easter egg hunt in the lovely shafts of morning sunlight.

Martin just came in from the dark, where he was digging up sod and replanting the last of the tea roses. We also now delight in a very promising row of Eastern redbuds and crabapples in our front yard. And I, who decided an unborn baby who gives indication of someday appearing but then decides she's more comfortable where she is would no longer stop me from getting on, finally began my big spring pruning exercises. I think perhaps, due to my laziness last fall, I may have lost a few roses--but only time will tell.

And my mother cooked us the best turkey dinner I think I have ever tasted. And that, folks, is the news from Wazoo.

Kitchen Pictures

Well, these are not really up-to-snuff, as we took them rather late at night and the lighting is just wretched. But it gives you an idea, anyway.

We've since removed the paper lanterns.