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If your cement cracks. . .

/ wvfurandroot / 5 Comments
Plug it with a plant.

A whole new twist on cement planters.

If the concept of reincarnation as making you do it over and over again until you get it right is correct, I think what I’m here to understand is bloom where you’re planted or joy in spite of it all.

The plant depicted above lives in a cement courtyard of a housing complex for Huntington’s formerly-homeless. I work near the complex and have occasion to stand on the “smoking veranda” and chat with some of the tenants.

They’re an amazing bunch – a fair amount of Vietnam vets, a fair amount of alcoholics, many of them disabled, and most of them strangely optimistic about life. Their apartments are tiny and most of them take pride in keeping them neat and orderly only in part due to monthly inspections. [Hmmm. . .maybe I need a monthly inspection around here.]

I get tickled with their homemaking at times and I’m not sure why. There’s one guy – a tall, wiry fellow with dark, burnished skin and an ever-present cigarette dangling from his mouth, who dons an old-fashioned woman’s apron every time he mops his place – which is daily. But he’s the exception. Other acts and conversation about apartment maintenance are only a little weird (alcoholism is rampant). For the most part, it’s routine “so, what did you use to get your drip pans clean?” Maybe it’s because the majority are men – which makes me sexist, I guess.

One day I got to witness the group collaboration on the making of a Duncan Hines box cake. One had the pans, another had the oil, but no one had an egg. The consternation was great. (I told them to forget the oil and use mayonnaise instead – really, it works.) Nobody had mayonnaise either. Eventually two of them went to the Kroger to procure eggs – hoping, as they left, Kroger would have half-dozen cartons. Man, we only need 1 egg, I’m gonna shit if we have to buy 12.

It’s not all happiness and Mayberry on meth out there, but I’m always surprised. And for whatever reason, they would die before they would let anyone harm me. I’m treated with great respect and the times I’m subjected to coarseness and ribaldry are few (and sweet in a twisted way).

So. Here these guys are living in this place. They had to hit rock bottom to qualify. Most of the time, they’re cheerful. (40s are only a part of it.)

Every year, someone plants a green, growing thing of one variety or another in a large cement crack that chips and gets a little bigger every year.  Last year it was petunias. And last year, I could never remember to bring the camera to take a picture of those glorious purple petunias spreading over the concrete. This year’s plant is familiar, but I can’t quite dredge up what it’s going to be.

These plants are smile-provoking and, given the circumstances, probably require a great deal of care. I’ve been intrigued by the planting for several years now. I think the moral is if your cement cracks, plug it with a plant.

Not bad advice.

The Ides of June

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments
Birthday Boy
Birthday Boy

The 15th of June ushers in a season of birthdays and other anniversaries that rivals Christmas in expense. Chef Boy ‘R Mine’s natal day kicks off the season. The 16th is my brother’s birthday and the 23rd is my father’s. Father’s Day usually falls in there somewhere. My mother will turn 69 on July 6th and I hit 50 in August. Niece’s, nephew’s, and friend’s are scattered about between now and September.

HMOKeefe and I met online in June. He also will mark the two-year anniversary of his bone marrow transplant in June. His daughter’s birthday is in June.

My birthday resembles a bacchanal jubilee event since the entrance of HMOKeefe in my life. Appalled that I didn’t’ do much to celebrate mine (due, in part, to overdosing on cake after the June-July events), he persuaded me to mark mine with great fanfare and hedonism.

I’m a quadruple Leo according to my astrological chart, so the persuasion wasn’t all that rough. I went from not much to marking the day with self-indulgence, to a week of intense partying, to a month. My own birthday damages my wallet just as much as the others’ I celebrate. I’ve taken to giving my self a present each year. With a budget of roughly a $100, I give myself something I would never buy under normal circumstances – something I want but can’t justify.

Chef Boy ‘R Mine, however, is the champ of Birthday Season. The only child, the only grandchild, and resembling me far too much for his own good, the anniversary of his birth is a circus. As he got older, it got more and more difficult to blow his mind with a stellar present.

When he was 12 a new friend came to visit. In tow was her dog Whomper. Child of Mine felt instantly in love with her little dachshund. At the time, he was already moving into his faux angry young man phase (although he insists it’s not anger, but angst), so watching him lavish love and attention on Whomper was a bit startling.

While not thrilled with the idea of a puppy, the ex and I agreed a dachshund was in order to mark the 13th. Presumably the Fruit of My Loins was old enough to care for and train the puppy. After a rather frantic search, Ex O’Mine came home on the 11th of June with a little, wiggly body of unconditional love and cuteness.

The idea was to hide her from the boy until the 15th.

Well. That was impossible. I hadn’t realized 8-week-old puppies could be so noisy.

dachshundstatue
For the love of Stevie. . .

I spent a day or two locked in the master bedroom with a puppy that melted my heart. She and I bonded. Big time. And since we did, any time I left the bedroom, she whined and whimpered. On the 13th, we gave in and realized it was impossible. Uncharacteristically, the boy slept late that morning, so the opportunity to slip a puppy into bed with him was irresistible.

Boy oh boy was Chef Boy ‘R Mine surprised. Since I had been adamant for so long that there would be no dogs in this house, he was shocked and intensely happy. Not only had we managed to come up with a great birthday present, we had come up with the best present ever.

He named her Stevie after Steve Prefontaine, a cross-country runner he was emulating.

Everyone who met Stevie fell in love with her; she’s the standard by which all dogs are measured. She was a cracker-jack. She also thought she was my dog. She went running with the guys. She cuddled with them. But she wouldn’t go to sleep at night until I did and, given a choice, it was always my lap that she settled into.

A few years later, she died in a tragic accident that I still can’t talk about without tearing up. I regret, intensely, not taking more pictures of her.

In my kitchen is a carved wooden statue of a dachshund. I found it a few years ago and bought it for my birthday.

stevieflipped
Celebratory Stevie

I didn’t take a lot of photos until I was given a new camera for my birthday. I hadn’t realized what a pain my old camera was until the new one entered my life; but the contrariness of the old one probably explains why there are years of my life undocumented.

Some days I can barely remember Stevie’s features. I look at the one good picture of her that I have and she comes into focus again.  Even so, the focus is getting blurrier with time. I miss her still.

Take photos of your life – the big, the small, the things that capture your attention, the people and flora and fauna that rock your world. Take pictures of the stuff you’ve worked hard to acquire. Capture the scenery. Document the celebrations. Mark it all and keep it.

2009 Gardenpalooza (update)

/ wvfurandroot / 5 Comments
Mmmmmmmmmmm....I'm in love (again).
Mmmmmmmmmmm….I’m in love (again).

Well, my crushes are coming fast and furious. First it was the daffodils then the redbud and mock orange, not to mention the irises, daisies, peony, and petunias. Being a Poor Person of Considerable Poverty ™, it is damned inconvenient to have this kind of energy for – and commitment to – the garden without enough money to do it right. I’m making do with annuals, for the most part, and some seed.

The latest crush is the dahlia. I am just knocked out by this beauty. She’s not in the ground yet due to the monsoon season that is upon us.

wave petunias
wave petunias

I go to the hardware store for something like a bag of potting soil and come home with a car full of plants. I’ve indulged in lobelia, gerbera daisies, petunias, dusty miller,  moss roses, a rose bush, clematis, stuff I don’t know the name of, and some kick-ass geraniums. I’ve never been much fond of geraniums, but those floral geneticists are getting pretty good with them.  They’re much more aesthetically pleasing these days.

I completely lost all sense of fiscal responsibility and came home with wisteria on Monday. The blooms have come and gone, but next year – oh my, next year!

retaining wall bed
retaining wall bed

Against all odds and contrary to my personal history, I’ve managed to get both morning glory and moonflower seeds to germinate. I’m hesitant to take things for granted given that I’ve had no luck with either for 20 years, but I will be much pleased if they do grow and thrive.

Trudy, the little brat, is still digging up my one bed. There must be chipmunks nesting near by. We are getting ready to come to blows if she doesn’t begin seeing things my way.

I didn’t get around to planting anything until Monday, other than some hostas and lily-of-the-valley, due to bed preparation. On Saturday and Sunday, I broke ground in some of the nastiest hard clay and gravel any of y’all have ever seen. Monday morning, I ripped out the carpet roses and sloppily put them in a shady bed I won’t get to filling until next year. At this stage, I don’t care if they die. I de-leafed, cleaned up debris, washed the lawn furniture, and evicted some of the wasp nests.

Bone weary, I was.

rain on the roses

rain on the roses

Those of us around here know that there have been waves of downpours. Having lived in the tropics, I know a monsoon when I see one. Truly, it’s been amazing. Having done all that work, I was determined to get stuff in the ground.

I’ve been gardening in the rain. As I sit here typing this, I have mud-splattered arms, oak pollen in my hair, and my jeans aren’t even recognizable as denim. I’m filthy and very happy.

Still, I have toted timbers in the rain, I have dragged 10 bags of topsoil out of my car in the rain, I planted a flat of begonias and another of petunias and yet another of lobelia in the rain.

garden gate
garden gate

I filled baskets with moss roses in the rain and have two to go, plus I got some that were already filled. I hung humming bird feeders and Boston ferns in the rain. I put down grass seed. I planted two creeping junipers in the rain.  And I have daisies, Siberian irises, balloon flowers, columbine, wild delphinium, ivy and vinca to transplant. Besides all that, I have pots of this and that to get in the ground after I level the landscape timbers. This rain needs to stop – there’s only so much I can do in rain storms so fierce I’m soaked to the skin in seconds. Naked gardening can be fun, but it’s not quite warm enough for that – yet.

Wild Delphinium
wild delphinium

After 4 years of back breaking work punctuated by months of inertia, my dream of a white garden (with punches of blue and purple) is being realized. Having viewed planning as anathema for most of my life, I’m starting to see the merits. If you have goals and plan them out, it feels pretty damn good when they begin to unfold. (It also makes decisions at the nursery easier.) There’s still a lot to do.

The white garden will be years in the making.

In other news, the cottage garden is as yet untouched. I’m hoping to be finished with this year’s stuff for the white garden by this weekend – at which time, I will be begin ripping out wild rose, honeysuckle, oak saplings, bind weed, and the what-was-I-thinking loosestrife.

I hope this passion continues to burn. Gardening used to be my bliss, my therapist, my hobby, and my exercise. I’m not sure why I got so completely away from it, but I did. (And I’m paying for those years of neglect in so many different ways.)

2009 Gardenpalooza is underway. Woo Hoo!

[Note:  Garden Rant, Sustainable Gardening and The Gardener Guy are three of my favorite gardening sites.  If you check them out, be prepared to lose a lot of time.]