Showing posts with label Il faut cultiver notre jardin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Il faut cultiver notre jardin. Show all posts
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Picking serviceberries
We haven't had enough sun for the berries to be as ripe as they ought to be this time of year.
But I did get to pick them with the Queen of America, and that's something (her pirate crown is off in this picture, because it kept getting tangled in the branches). In the end, we scrapped our pie-baking idea and had ice cream sandwiches instead, which was a pretty fine outcome, really.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
Thaw
There are hellebores about to bloom in my garden, small green pokes of curled tulip leaves. And dog poop, but that's how it goes.
I stopped on my way back home from the co-op, found a pruning saw I had forgotten I owned, and pruned back the branch of the forsythia that I had trained myself to duck around every time I go in and out of the house.
A little more space. A little more hope.
Jo(e), February is a short month. Don't get me wrong, it can still be a fucker, but it's easier, further south, where you can see winter's hold breaking up earlier.
I stopped on my way back home from the co-op, found a pruning saw I had forgotten I owned, and pruned back the branch of the forsythia that I had trained myself to duck around every time I go in and out of the house.
A little more space. A little more hope.
Jo(e), February is a short month. Don't get me wrong, it can still be a fucker, but it's easier, further south, where you can see winter's hold breaking up earlier.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Our spate of dead possums
Tuesday night, A. was taking out the garbage while I was finishing the dishes. She came in with trepidation in her voice.
A.: S.? I think there might be a dead animal in our yard. Like a mouse or a shrew or something.
S.: Where?
A.: Out there, on the walk. In the shadows.
(S. goes out to the patio in bare feet and peers down the darkened walk)
A.: I'll do the rest of the dishes if you take care of it.
S.: Can I wait until morning, when I can see it? (comes back inside) You don't have to do the dishes.
A.: Yes, sure, just so long as I don't have to do it.
S.: This is where my secret butch powers come into play.
A.: I don't think there's anything secret about them. You went to dead animal camp. I went to music camp.
In the morning, there was the usual September getting-ready-for-school oyster carnival, so the dead animal was still there in our path as I was finally ready to drag Z. from the house to school. A dead possum, a young one, larger than a mouse or a shrew, maybe a little smaller than a squirrel (not counting tails.) How to keep her from seeing it? I eyed it from afar. I flicked and pushed and pulled the elements that set the stroller up, and put my three-and-a-half-foot three-and-a-half-year-old into the stroller while still on the patio five stairs above the street. We rolled down the walk until I needed to lift the stroller up and over the remains.
Z.: Why ah you doing dat?
S.: Because there's something on the path. (Returns the stroller to ground)
Z.: What is it?
S.: (Opens gate) A dead baby possum. (Pushes stroller through)
Z.: Why is it dead?
S.: (Lifts 50+ pounds of kid and stroller down stairs.) Something killed it, another animal, you know how some animals eat other animals to live. (Deposits stroller on sidewalk.) It was probably an animal that wanted to eat it.
Z.: But it DIDN'T eat it. (Stroller is rolling towards school.) I thzink it prwobably smelled bad.
S.: I'm sure it does now.
Once home, I used the spade and a Whole Foods bag to deal with the problem. Trash was still on the curb, so I counted my blessing as I deposited the paper bag into the can, and when the garbage truck rumbled in place in front of my house, I had the happy thought that the possum was on its way to return to the earth, and not the earth in our yard, either.
In the bath that night, Z. told me she wanted me to have my arms around her when she died. I told her that one of the special things about mamas and their babies is that whenever the baby dies, even if she lives a long life and she's an old woman when she dies, is that she can feel her mama's arms around her then. Even if her mama has already died, she can feel like her mama is holding her. Z. told me that after we both die, she wants me to hold her.
I promised her that I would.
Epilogue:
Hunter Dog has still been taking a suspiciously long time to return to the door when we call her in, and her digestion has not been of the best. Last night she whined me up in the middle of the night to visit the outdoors and this morning I came downstairs to a note on the door from A.
"Hunter Dog has apparently been getting at the possum again. I put it under the big flowerpot in the middle of the patio so Z. wouldn't see it. :(, <3 Thanks! A."
A nest of dead possums? Either Hunter Dog is living up to her name or there's a killer cat on the loose on our block.
A.: S.? I think there might be a dead animal in our yard. Like a mouse or a shrew or something.
S.: Where?
A.: Out there, on the walk. In the shadows.
(S. goes out to the patio in bare feet and peers down the darkened walk)
A.: I'll do the rest of the dishes if you take care of it.
S.: Can I wait until morning, when I can see it? (comes back inside) You don't have to do the dishes.
A.: Yes, sure, just so long as I don't have to do it.
S.: This is where my secret butch powers come into play.
A.: I don't think there's anything secret about them. You went to dead animal camp. I went to music camp.
In the morning, there was the usual September getting-ready-for-school oyster carnival, so the dead animal was still there in our path as I was finally ready to drag Z. from the house to school. A dead possum, a young one, larger than a mouse or a shrew, maybe a little smaller than a squirrel (not counting tails.) How to keep her from seeing it? I eyed it from afar. I flicked and pushed and pulled the elements that set the stroller up, and put my three-and-a-half-foot three-and-a-half-year-old into the stroller while still on the patio five stairs above the street. We rolled down the walk until I needed to lift the stroller up and over the remains.
Z.: Why ah you doing dat?
S.: Because there's something on the path. (Returns the stroller to ground)
Z.: What is it?
S.: (Opens gate) A dead baby possum. (Pushes stroller through)
Z.: Why is it dead?
S.: (Lifts 50+ pounds of kid and stroller down stairs.) Something killed it, another animal, you know how some animals eat other animals to live. (Deposits stroller on sidewalk.) It was probably an animal that wanted to eat it.
Z.: But it DIDN'T eat it. (Stroller is rolling towards school.) I thzink it prwobably smelled bad.
S.: I'm sure it does now.
Once home, I used the spade and a Whole Foods bag to deal with the problem. Trash was still on the curb, so I counted my blessing as I deposited the paper bag into the can, and when the garbage truck rumbled in place in front of my house, I had the happy thought that the possum was on its way to return to the earth, and not the earth in our yard, either.
In the bath that night, Z. told me she wanted me to have my arms around her when she died. I told her that one of the special things about mamas and their babies is that whenever the baby dies, even if she lives a long life and she's an old woman when she dies, is that she can feel her mama's arms around her then. Even if her mama has already died, she can feel like her mama is holding her. Z. told me that after we both die, she wants me to hold her.
I promised her that I would.
Epilogue:
Hunter Dog has still been taking a suspiciously long time to return to the door when we call her in, and her digestion has not been of the best. Last night she whined me up in the middle of the night to visit the outdoors and this morning I came downstairs to a note on the door from A.
"Hunter Dog has apparently been getting at the possum again. I put it under the big flowerpot in the middle of the patio so Z. wouldn't see it. :(, <3 Thanks! A."
A nest of dead possums? Either Hunter Dog is living up to her name or there's a killer cat on the loose on our block.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Hanukkah Sameach
Hi. I'm back.
It was, all in all, a good Hanukkah, I think. We only forgot to light once, and we wouldn't have had enough candles if we'd lit that night anyway. Actually, any Hanukkah during which we finish the holiday with essentially no candles is a good one in my book. (We ended with 2: we started with over 100, a full box and some leftover from last year and a box from Z.'s daycare.) I'm not going to go into the acquisitions, which were not too excessive but also not entirely free from excess, but the excess was excess I can live with, so, you know, it was okay.
But oh, those dancing lights.
We're in the time of year when it's hardest for me to feel connected to the world around me, especially when it's a week like this one and the clouds are low and the color of dust and show no signs of giving way for days. I start to feel like I'm drowning for lack of light, like the oxygen isn't making it to my lungs because they're slowly filling up with grey.
Those candles, they help. They might not be anything more than pretty lights, but they are cheerful and they are an excuse for people to come together and sing and to Maccabee yoga, even. The simple fact of a holiday that we arrive at each year--in gladness or guilt or hope or sorrow--promises that the earth will keep revolving until it's our turn in the sun again. This year, when the holiday was entirely before the solstice, I imagined that each additional candle made up for the diminishing light in my mid-Atlantic day. And I recalled winters that were harder than this one, and counted myself lucky, really.
The year is turning, the sun is going, the sun will return. At least, it always has.
This is a time of year when I feel like the Christianity I was raised with and the Judaism I embrace now are entirely inadequate to the rhythm of the year. Everything powerful for me about Christmas is pagan. The loss of the sun is profound. All the green, abundant growth of the year that needs the sun for survival--all that is done, it's dead, it's returning to the earth to be used again for new growth. If anything is happening at all, it's happening underground, where it can't be seen and to disturb it would be to destroy it. I can consider the dead leaves, or turn my face from them, it doesn't really matter. Mostly I just need to keep going, trusting that beneath my feet and past my conscious mind there is something that will, in the fullness of Spring, turn into the tiniest of buds and the most translucent of green and grow, day by day, to harvest the energy of the sun.
In the meanwhile, I wish hibernation were an option. I really do.
It was, all in all, a good Hanukkah, I think. We only forgot to light once, and we wouldn't have had enough candles if we'd lit that night anyway. Actually, any Hanukkah during which we finish the holiday with essentially no candles is a good one in my book. (We ended with 2: we started with over 100, a full box and some leftover from last year and a box from Z.'s daycare.) I'm not going to go into the acquisitions, which were not too excessive but also not entirely free from excess, but the excess was excess I can live with, so, you know, it was okay.
But oh, those dancing lights.
We're in the time of year when it's hardest for me to feel connected to the world around me, especially when it's a week like this one and the clouds are low and the color of dust and show no signs of giving way for days. I start to feel like I'm drowning for lack of light, like the oxygen isn't making it to my lungs because they're slowly filling up with grey.
Those candles, they help. They might not be anything more than pretty lights, but they are cheerful and they are an excuse for people to come together and sing and to Maccabee yoga, even. The simple fact of a holiday that we arrive at each year--in gladness or guilt or hope or sorrow--promises that the earth will keep revolving until it's our turn in the sun again. This year, when the holiday was entirely before the solstice, I imagined that each additional candle made up for the diminishing light in my mid-Atlantic day. And I recalled winters that were harder than this one, and counted myself lucky, really.
The year is turning, the sun is going, the sun will return. At least, it always has.
This is a time of year when I feel like the Christianity I was raised with and the Judaism I embrace now are entirely inadequate to the rhythm of the year. Everything powerful for me about Christmas is pagan. The loss of the sun is profound. All the green, abundant growth of the year that needs the sun for survival--all that is done, it's dead, it's returning to the earth to be used again for new growth. If anything is happening at all, it's happening underground, where it can't be seen and to disturb it would be to destroy it. I can consider the dead leaves, or turn my face from them, it doesn't really matter. Mostly I just need to keep going, trusting that beneath my feet and past my conscious mind there is something that will, in the fullness of Spring, turn into the tiniest of buds and the most translucent of green and grow, day by day, to harvest the energy of the sun.
In the meanwhile, I wish hibernation were an option. I really do.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Time to put the garden to bed
November tomatoes
The child's gloves in question, rescued from the digging box.
Virginia creeper on the sidewall of the store.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Pumpkins
Z. adores pumpkins. This is something that arose spontaneously in her, as though by instinct. Last year, the first Fall she had language, she was able to tell us about her passion, and gamely, we introduced oil pastels and glitter into our household, because how else would a one-and-a-half year old in a cast decorate a pumpkin?
Eventually, those fabulous pumpkins began to go the way of all things, so we moved them to a corner of Z.'s digging box, which is a raised vegetable bed that we just left unplanted the past two summers.
So the pumpkin vines that have been taking over our garden are not quite volunteers. If you put a giant native squash, full of seeds, on top fertile earth and let it rot there, and turn the earth over it when the resulting mess becomes unsightly, you cannot feign surprise when vines push their way up the following year. But we have been startled at how many vines, and how vigorous, our non-planting produced. We have thinned them, and pulled them out, and cut them back, and in the end, we were left with only one pumpkin, which is as many as we need, though not nearly as many as Z. wants.
This weekend, we took Z. to a Fall Festival at Nearby Arboretum, co-sponsored by The Co-op on the Corner. It was humid and in the upper 80's, but we rode up from the improvised parking lot in an air-conditioned shuttle bus with one of Z.'s daycare classmates, Articulate Girl with Perfect Braids, and when we got off at the top of the hill, the autumn smell of straw was in the summery air from the scarecrow-making booth, and the lawns were abuzz with parents and young children.
The Festival had a great, great many pumpkins, all of adorable size, all waiting eagerly to be painted and beglittered. Z. chose one of near-perfect roundness, with a marvelous stem, and set to work. Another daycare classmate, Exquisite Girl with Long Straight Hair, set up her pumpkin next to Z.'s and they daubed tempura and sprinkled mylar with absolute concentration for longer than you would think possible. Z.'s technique was to incorporate each sprinkling of glitter in with a new application of paint, which resulted in a muddy, purplish effect and was not easy on paintbrushes.
I just plain like that muddy, sparkly little pumpkin. Even indoors in the dark evening, relegated to a Safe Place on top of the broken stereo, that little pumpkin shines.
Eventually, those fabulous pumpkins began to go the way of all things, so we moved them to a corner of Z.'s digging box, which is a raised vegetable bed that we just left unplanted the past two summers.
So the pumpkin vines that have been taking over our garden are not quite volunteers. If you put a giant native squash, full of seeds, on top fertile earth and let it rot there, and turn the earth over it when the resulting mess becomes unsightly, you cannot feign surprise when vines push their way up the following year. But we have been startled at how many vines, and how vigorous, our non-planting produced. We have thinned them, and pulled them out, and cut them back, and in the end, we were left with only one pumpkin, which is as many as we need, though not nearly as many as Z. wants.
This weekend, we took Z. to a Fall Festival at Nearby Arboretum, co-sponsored by The Co-op on the Corner. It was humid and in the upper 80's, but we rode up from the improvised parking lot in an air-conditioned shuttle bus with one of Z.'s daycare classmates, Articulate Girl with Perfect Braids, and when we got off at the top of the hill, the autumn smell of straw was in the summery air from the scarecrow-making booth, and the lawns were abuzz with parents and young children.
The Festival had a great, great many pumpkins, all of adorable size, all waiting eagerly to be painted and beglittered. Z. chose one of near-perfect roundness, with a marvelous stem, and set to work. Another daycare classmate, Exquisite Girl with Long Straight Hair, set up her pumpkin next to Z.'s and they daubed tempura and sprinkled mylar with absolute concentration for longer than you would think possible. Z.'s technique was to incorporate each sprinkling of glitter in with a new application of paint, which resulted in a muddy, purplish effect and was not easy on paintbrushes.
I just plain like that muddy, sparkly little pumpkin. Even indoors in the dark evening, relegated to a Safe Place on top of the broken stereo, that little pumpkin shines.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Monday, August 6, 2007
Volunteers
These:
came out of here:
When it's actually clear of weeds, this is a native azalea surrounded by giant solomon's seal, sensitive fern, and wild ginger. Hey, I couldn't tell that from the photo, either. (I'm leaving it small because the light was low when I took it and if I make it any bigger the camera shake will make you dizzy.) Most of what's obscuring the azalea is a volunteer tomato plant.
I had seen the tomatoes and sort of weeded around them earlier in the summer, but I had no idea about the cukes. They have not been supported in any way except by growing over the tomato and then onto the azalea. Yep. We have so many weeds they are staking each other by force of jungle. We have volunteer tomatoes every year from the dogs stealing tomatoes and eating them in various corners of the garden. But they've never produced fruit early enough to ripen.
I love these little untended gifts the garden throws my way. When I lived downtown, I would love watching the petunias growing in the chinks between the bricks in the sidewalk, under the windowboxes where they'd been planted the year before. Even the fussiest plants that we mail order specially don't know that about themselves. They go ahead spreading their seed around just like any other weed. I have a couple of gorgeous, big, glossy hostas that figured they'd hop a few yards over from my neighbor's place to mine. They settled in practically under the big holly, where I never would have planted anything on purpose, and they're doing just fine. By now I think I have three or four blackberry lilies, only one of which I actually planted on purpose. But blackberry lilies! Who could object to a blackberry lily, wherever it happened to plant itself?
The idea of a volunteer is so lovely. Something desirable that just crops up, not wild but not planned, coming into being not through any effort of your own--or maybe only the secondary result of effort you put in intentionally earlier, and maybe somewhere else. The honor the store won last week is a bit of a volunteer in that sense. We were just doing what we do, and how lovely...this thing arrived on our doorstep.
The several former students I have on my staff are another sort of volunteer. I did put effort into those relationships when these young women were still girls (though at the end of their girlhoods), and they have turned up again, grown, and resuming those relationships in a new setting and on somewhat different terms. But still, the initial work was long ago and for a different purpose.
In Mona in the Promised Land--a book you should go out and read immediately if you haven't (yes, of course I mean you, silly!*), and if you have read it you should go out immediately and read it again--Gish Jen thinks about volunteers this way:
I'm wondering about the volunteers in your life.
*except if you are E., because I think if you are E. you must have it memorized by now.
came out of here:
When it's actually clear of weeds, this is a native azalea surrounded by giant solomon's seal, sensitive fern, and wild ginger. Hey, I couldn't tell that from the photo, either. (I'm leaving it small because the light was low when I took it and if I make it any bigger the camera shake will make you dizzy.) Most of what's obscuring the azalea is a volunteer tomato plant.
I had seen the tomatoes and sort of weeded around them earlier in the summer, but I had no idea about the cukes. They have not been supported in any way except by growing over the tomato and then onto the azalea. Yep. We have so many weeds they are staking each other by force of jungle. We have volunteer tomatoes every year from the dogs stealing tomatoes and eating them in various corners of the garden. But they've never produced fruit early enough to ripen.
I love these little untended gifts the garden throws my way. When I lived downtown, I would love watching the petunias growing in the chinks between the bricks in the sidewalk, under the windowboxes where they'd been planted the year before. Even the fussiest plants that we mail order specially don't know that about themselves. They go ahead spreading their seed around just like any other weed. I have a couple of gorgeous, big, glossy hostas that figured they'd hop a few yards over from my neighbor's place to mine. They settled in practically under the big holly, where I never would have planted anything on purpose, and they're doing just fine. By now I think I have three or four blackberry lilies, only one of which I actually planted on purpose. But blackberry lilies! Who could object to a blackberry lily, wherever it happened to plant itself?
The idea of a volunteer is so lovely. Something desirable that just crops up, not wild but not planned, coming into being not through any effort of your own--or maybe only the secondary result of effort you put in intentionally earlier, and maybe somewhere else. The honor the store won last week is a bit of a volunteer in that sense. We were just doing what we do, and how lovely...this thing arrived on our doorstep.
The several former students I have on my staff are another sort of volunteer. I did put effort into those relationships when these young women were still girls (though at the end of their girlhoods), and they have turned up again, grown, and resuming those relationships in a new setting and on somewhat different terms. But still, the initial work was long ago and for a different purpose.
In Mona in the Promised Land--a book you should go out and read immediately if you haven't (yes, of course I mean you, silly!*), and if you have read it you should go out immediately and read it again--Gish Jen thinks about volunteers this way:
In fact, he is the first of many loves that will crowd her official life--unoffical plantings that will thrive for their neglect. And eventually she will learn a name for them, a word for plants that spring up on their own. Volunteers. He is like one of these--plants she will in time learn to appreciate, even as she lets them go to seed.
I'm wondering about the volunteers in your life.
*except if you are E., because I think if you are E. you must have it memorized by now.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Goutweed, as promised long ago
Gone to seed, with a side order of poison ivy. (goutweed is a.k.a. bishop's weed)
Thursday, June 28, 2007
The pumpkin vine that ate my garden
I had originally thought I would head South and leave that picture of Diva Dog and Z. to hold the fort for a week. But upon reflection in the sober light of day, that seems a little melodramatic. So here are some garden shots. Not that these vines aren't melodramatic, but more in a John Waters kind of a way. I think I'll pull a couple-three of them before we go so we still have some tomatoes left by the time we get back. The cardboard on the ground is actually a mulching strategy. We have a lot of cardboard, and we're not too proud to use it.
Can you spot Z.? (Hint: she's the one with a binky in her mouth.) Don't you think t-shirt and diaper is the way to go in summertime? We're going to be doing intensive potty-training the next few days in Maryland, so I think it will just be t-shirt, full-stop for awhile when we're down there. Z. is regarding us with long, long stares when we raise this whole topic with her. But I'll be damned if I buy a set of extra-large Fuzzi Bunz, which is the way things are going if we don't get serious about this.And hey, do you see that little sunflowery-looking biter--okay, more of a evil rudbeckia maybe--in between the pumpkin leaves trailing on the cardboard in the foreground of that picture? If anyone knows what that is, please tell me. (Niobe, I know I still owe you a shot of goutweed--it's been a little crazy around here during picture-taking hours.)
Also, a recipe:
Limeade:
1/2 c. fresh-squeezed lime juice (between 3 and 5 limes)
1/2 c. sugar
1 litre raspberry seltzer
water to fill up the rest of a one-quart (8 cup) pitcher
mix it all up and refrigerate (don't you think there should be a "d" in that word? I sure do.)
When we tear out of here tomorrow afternoon there will be no internet for me til the 4th--and I'm hoping I'm so cleansed and detoxed by then that I can just say no til we get back. So see you on the ninth or thereabouts.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Weeds
Was everyone out in the garden today?The weed-whacker is my new best friend--and why? I am almost embarrassed to say, but the reason I am currently so enamored of it is that it whacks weeds. We have been using ours to mow the lawn, because we really don't have much lawn, and not to whack weeds, because the weeds in our yard put me more in mind of a scythe or a machete, or possibly a flamethrower, not a little spinning piece of oversized fishing line.
And you thought I was a gardener. Pshaw. I just like plants and dirt.
It was A.'s job to mow the lawn until last year, when she never got around to it. This doesn't have the result you might think, because at a certain point in the summer in the Mid-Atlantic, grass stops growing because drought sets in, while weeds keep right on keeping on. Last year we made the experiment of just letting them, and there are these sort of pretty sunflower-y looking little biters that turn out to create thousands and thousands of burrs per plant come October. The dogs bring the burrs in, they lodge in the upholstery and the blankets ... and socks!, do they ever prick in your socks! And outdoors the results are sort of what you might think--lots and lots of baby sunflower-y biters growing everywhere this year. I need to get me a guide to common weeds of SE Pennsylvania, that's what I need to do. The good news is that they're an annual, so we just need to keep 'em from going to seed for one season and they'll be gone.
So this year lawn care has fallen back to me. Which is okay, I guess. Today, I hacked down the lawn (it hadn't been mowed in oh, 5, maybe 6 weeks, and it is not the drought-afflicted part of the summer yet), then, whacker still abuzz, I looked at the rest of the yard, and thought, why not? Friends, it was a revelation. Pokeweed taller than my head toppled to the ground before me. What was looking like, well, a whole lot of weeds, was reduced to a gentle carpet of weed stems. The apple trees are discernible from the house again. Our yard is big for the city--a 40-foot wide lot that runs something over 100 feet deep--more than half the block deep. Some of it is beds and some is patio and some is something close to woods and a goodly chunk is raspberry and wild grape thicket, but enough of it is open to weed-whacking to make the ligaments in my hands feel like taught rubber bands by the time I'd finished buzzing everything down. I have a blister, too. I like it a lot. I worked hard today, and it still felt like shabbat.
Afterwards, I went to the pool all by myself while A. and Z. were napping. It was delicious.
The pictures are all of plants that are not weeds that are currently making me feel like it's worthwhile to spend time paying attention outdoors. Edited Sun. morning to add: on sleeping on it, I realized that in a properly informative gardening post, I need to identify my pics, weeds or not, so from the top: A fig tree grows in Philadelphia (the cultivar is Hardy Chicago for those of you wondering about zone and hardiness); The pumpkin vines that we planted sort-of accidentally in Z.'s digging box as a result of her last-October project of drawing on pumpkins with oil pastels and glitter pens; A clematis to satisfy even Z.'s purple jones; A Scarlet Emperor lily, which is actually about twice as sexy in real life, if you can believe it--why aren't we giving these to each other on Valentine's Day?
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
A picture for the pixies
If anyone wants to take up temporary residence on the bench on my patio, here's what you'll see:
Friday, May 11, 2007
Dealing with things
My mother has come to my aid recently by visiting and helping me declutter.
I think in this blog I come across as in better shape than I am--humor me, if I don't. In real life, I find that if I'm left on my own I just kind of wind down. So my mother has been coming up to keep me functioning.
This last visit was from Saturday to Wednesday, long enough to really get things done, and the last items displaced by the great bed move have settled into new spots in the house. She undid the huge pile of cardboard that we had created in the future mudroom, carting much of it off in her station wagon (we don't have curbside cardboard recycling here.) She entertained Z. She bought us take-out and took us to the diner. She made things easier. Walking through the house where the displaced items used to be is nearly shocking. So many things are missing it feels like we have moved. From one corner of the house, anyway.
In the garden, she went to town on the dandelions. In return, I sent her home with shade plants for her north-facing front yard: trillium, sensitive fern, allegheny pachysandra, dogstooth violets, and one volunteer heuchera. Also some daffs that needed dividing, though that project is only barely begun.
My garden is unevenly kempt, but it never feels beyond me. My house almost ALWAYS feels beyond me. Aside from the obvious fact that if I am in the garden, I am in sunshine (don't underestimate this benefit in a SAD sufferer), I am not sure why this should be. It is evidently more difficult and time-consuming to create a drip irrigation system than it is to clean a bathroom, but only the latter feels daunting.
In other news, the insurance check is supposed to be on its way, and we are likely to buy a car with it this evening--used, 2 years younger, fewer miles, otherwise same make and model. We will be financing a good chunk of it, but with everything that's going on, I'd rather pay more for a certified car with the warranty intact.
Post in process on changing therapists and my bad morning yesterday--but after we car-shop, shabbat will be here, so it may have to wait until Sunday.
I think in this blog I come across as in better shape than I am--humor me, if I don't. In real life, I find that if I'm left on my own I just kind of wind down. So my mother has been coming up to keep me functioning.
This last visit was from Saturday to Wednesday, long enough to really get things done, and the last items displaced by the great bed move have settled into new spots in the house. She undid the huge pile of cardboard that we had created in the future mudroom, carting much of it off in her station wagon (we don't have curbside cardboard recycling here.) She entertained Z. She bought us take-out and took us to the diner. She made things easier. Walking through the house where the displaced items used to be is nearly shocking. So many things are missing it feels like we have moved. From one corner of the house, anyway.
In the garden, she went to town on the dandelions. In return, I sent her home with shade plants for her north-facing front yard: trillium, sensitive fern, allegheny pachysandra, dogstooth violets, and one volunteer heuchera. Also some daffs that needed dividing, though that project is only barely begun.
My garden is unevenly kempt, but it never feels beyond me. My house almost ALWAYS feels beyond me. Aside from the obvious fact that if I am in the garden, I am in sunshine (don't underestimate this benefit in a SAD sufferer), I am not sure why this should be. It is evidently more difficult and time-consuming to create a drip irrigation system than it is to clean a bathroom, but only the latter feels daunting.
In other news, the insurance check is supposed to be on its way, and we are likely to buy a car with it this evening--used, 2 years younger, fewer miles, otherwise same make and model. We will be financing a good chunk of it, but with everything that's going on, I'd rather pay more for a certified car with the warranty intact.
Post in process on changing therapists and my bad morning yesterday--but after we car-shop, shabbat will be here, so it may have to wait until Sunday.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Fear and hostas
I am supposed to say something about fearlessness for Miriam, but I'm afraid (ha!) that I would wind up on the opposite emotion. So I'm going to sit this one out and talk about my garden instead ... my lovely, unkempt, healing garden. But Miriam, I'll try to pitch in on the next one.
My Plant Delights order came today: 5 new hostas, two very cute miniatures, three quite handsome larger ones. Also a trillium that frankly looks a little worse for wear, but I've had good luck with these guys before, so I planted it and we'll see how it goes. And a non-vining clematis, something I've admired but never planted in my own garden before. And oh, those hostas! (I never liked hostas before I got on the Plant Delights mailing list. Google 'em yourself--it's well worth the search!) In other garden news, one of the apple trees we planted after Z. was born looks like it has enough blooms to actually produce an apple this year--assuming there's another local apple to fertilize it, since none of the other three are in bloom (so much for the bloom-time chart I pored over).
Also, my sainted mother was here today, and we made terrific headway on pruning chaos and excess books from the first floor. A yard sale is in the offing--I suspect decluttering alone will help me feel more functional. The Someone Else's Problem fields have taken over our house.
If I actually overcome my fear, I'll take the decluttering approach to my finances on Monday--really, if they're as bad as I think they'll only get worse if I keep looking away each time my hyperventilation starts up.
My Plant Delights order came today: 5 new hostas, two very cute miniatures, three quite handsome larger ones. Also a trillium that frankly looks a little worse for wear, but I've had good luck with these guys before, so I planted it and we'll see how it goes. And a non-vining clematis, something I've admired but never planted in my own garden before. And oh, those hostas! (I never liked hostas before I got on the Plant Delights mailing list. Google 'em yourself--it's well worth the search!) In other garden news, one of the apple trees we planted after Z. was born looks like it has enough blooms to actually produce an apple this year--assuming there's another local apple to fertilize it, since none of the other three are in bloom (so much for the bloom-time chart I pored over).
Also, my sainted mother was here today, and we made terrific headway on pruning chaos and excess books from the first floor. A yard sale is in the offing--I suspect decluttering alone will help me feel more functional. The Someone Else's Problem fields have taken over our house.
If I actually overcome my fear, I'll take the decluttering approach to my finances on Monday--really, if they're as bad as I think they'll only get worse if I keep looking away each time my hyperventilation starts up.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Time lapse
These are all the view from my backdoor. (Phantom, there's the witch hazel.) I would like to pretend that our dogs knock the bench over on a daily basis, but no, we just don't bother dealing with things like that til it's warm enough to actually be outdoors.
The lawn is a mess. I hate grass, I hate mowing, I don't water, and this is the result. I sort of think I should let the whole thing go to clover.
March 22:
March 28:
Today:
The lawn is a mess. I hate grass, I hate mowing, I don't water, and this is the result. I sort of think I should let the whole thing go to clover.
March 22:
March 28:
Today:
Friday, March 16, 2007
Ice and Daffodils
So much for the end of the heating season--we've got hail and sleet, temperatures back in the 30's, and nasty roads. We also have our first daffodils in bloom, in the former laundry sink that's now a planter in front of our house. When I noticed the patch of yellow yesterday I was so surprised that at first I thought it was a candy wrapper that had gotten caught. These are miniatures (always the first to bloom for me): tiny and perfect and covered in ice. Poor things.
Most of my full-size daffs are showing buds, too. I decided to give in to my daffodil love last fall and planted them in a bunch of beds and borders that had previously been daff-free, and the project took me until December to finish. Most of the new ones are well up, but the last ones, the ones that only went in in December, were nowhere to be seen and I was despairing of them until this week. But if you get close to the dirt you can see the very tops of the leaves poking up, green and distinct.
Yesterday the co-op had pansies and other annuals on sale and Z. and I picked out a flat of the most purplest ones; now they're sojourning in the kitchen. I had this idea about planting the zenobias earlier in the week. Thank goodness I didn't have time.
And how are the zenobias doing? you ask. (I know you've all been losing sleep over this.) The answer is, they're still in my living room, which is still cold, and they've broken dormancy. Both are greening up and have new growth, which means I'll need to harden them off before planting. Not too big a deal, I hope.
I realize that being a gardener is really a way of being highly attuned to the weather. I wonder if other SAD (seasonal affective disorder) sufferers are drawn to gardening? I think this is my favorite season in the garden, because it still look so ratty but it's coming back to life. I'm not much good at doing fall clean-up, so there are dead perennials and vegetable stakes and red plastic tomato mulch and all sorts of things strewn around and the whole place looks fairly abandoned. But if you pay close attention to the dirt you'll see amazing things coming out of it. Blood-red tips of bleeding hearts, fleshy tulip leaves, furled tips of trillium, leafy and chthonic in equal measure.
Most of my full-size daffs are showing buds, too. I decided to give in to my daffodil love last fall and planted them in a bunch of beds and borders that had previously been daff-free, and the project took me until December to finish. Most of the new ones are well up, but the last ones, the ones that only went in in December, were nowhere to be seen and I was despairing of them until this week. But if you get close to the dirt you can see the very tops of the leaves poking up, green and distinct.
Yesterday the co-op had pansies and other annuals on sale and Z. and I picked out a flat of the most purplest ones; now they're sojourning in the kitchen. I had this idea about planting the zenobias earlier in the week. Thank goodness I didn't have time.
And how are the zenobias doing? you ask. (I know you've all been losing sleep over this.) The answer is, they're still in my living room, which is still cold, and they've broken dormancy. Both are greening up and have new growth, which means I'll need to harden them off before planting. Not too big a deal, I hope.
I realize that being a gardener is really a way of being highly attuned to the weather. I wonder if other SAD (seasonal affective disorder) sufferers are drawn to gardening? I think this is my favorite season in the garden, because it still look so ratty but it's coming back to life. I'm not much good at doing fall clean-up, so there are dead perennials and vegetable stakes and red plastic tomato mulch and all sorts of things strewn around and the whole place looks fairly abandoned. But if you pay close attention to the dirt you'll see amazing things coming out of it. Blood-red tips of bleeding hearts, fleshy tulip leaves, furled tips of trillium, leafy and chthonic in equal measure.
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