Thanksgiving

 “Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” — Marcel Proust

It's that time of year when one looks back on the last months to reflect on past and present blessings. I should do this much more often, I know. But at least this holiday makes me sit down and focus. 

At the top of the list, I must recognize those I lost this year. Dear friends Charlotte and Becky were two of the most special women I have ever know. I miss them both, and think often of their generosity, strength, and enthusiasm. Each in their own ways gave me  plenty of  reasons to be happy, and ways to work towards being a better person.

What I gained this year is almost hard to keep up with. After much planning, saving, and finally doing, we now have a fabulous new kitchen. While that in itself should not be held in such high esteem, the visions of many a dinner party with our wonderful and growing numbers of friends here make me smile at the thought. I know both Charlotte and Becky would like that idea, too.  We still have a little work to do here and there, but the dining room is now set for more than two, and the new views also include my young little garden. Yes, the deer continue to browse, or worse. But I continue to plant persistently, and hopefully.

I've learned a few things over this past year. Still in reference to those pesky deer, I am sorting out again the REALLY deer resistant plants. I hope to make greater strides yet. 
I am also beginning to learn the habits and tastes of the fish in the area. This has been a slow process, but one that makes me use my senses, and also makes me pay attention to the smallest cues.




It also gets me out and into the gorgeous world around us.  Joe and I have learned to enjoy these small moments together, and the occasional big moments with a keeper on the line. And let me tell you....I am beginning to understand what the fishing bug is. The thrill of a big hit followed by the struggle of pulling in a big fish is exhilarating. It keeps you wanting to do it again. 

On a completely different plane, I have been learning how hard it is to paint with watercolor. The process makes you have to see things inside out or backwards. Light goes first, not structure. Shadow takes it's cue from light. Subject matter slowly appears, and color takes a thousand variations and repetitions. I think I am learning how to see it, if not actually reproduce it.

I've also taught a few things this year, mostly to my adorable grandchildren. Olive and I dug and planted her first garden in October. She'll have tulips in spring, and maybe a few veggies this fall before the brutal Massachusetts winter fully blankets them. Walden and I have had some cooking adventures. Chocolate cake, chocolate icing, peeled shrimp, and chocolate mousse are all things we've cooked and enjoyed. (You see the theme here, I'm sure) We also helped him catch his first fish!

I went to a Bucket List Concert with Katie and Walden- Indigo Girls, Mary Chapin Carpenter, and Joan Baez! It was outside, with good seats, good food, and the very best of songs and harmonies. 
I have also happened on to some accidental moments that will be wonderful additions to that bucket full of memories. I've made some quick visits to see Walden this fall. Twenty four hours doesn't seem like much, but they have been chunks of pure joy for both of us. One little piece included the Touch A Truck event. More construction equipment than one could imagine, and all available to sit in and climb on. 
We've also learned that visits to see Olive can also be glorious spring and fall visits to the Berkshires with a small amount of planning. 
We have really enjoyed our season tickets to the Chamber Music Concert Series here, and feel fortunate to have access to world class musicians in "chamber" sized venues to enjoy the very best classical music. 

I have been blessed with many wonderful friends over the years, so I needed no expectations when we moved. But I now see one of the best gems of all, that I never imagined I would want, would be the fun of Friday night Russian Rummy with my GFFs. Maybe it's the food, or the drink, the competition, or the occasional extra jokers.... What am I talking about?? It's the companionship, the generosity of spirit, THE LAUGHTER!!

It has been a good year overall. I love where we are in life. And I am so grateful for every miracle moment.

  “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” — Albert Einstein

Old Gardener, New Deer Tricks- the REAL Story of Deer Resistance

Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn. 

Benjamin Franklin

Deer hoof print

I have had a great time gardening in my own garden in the last year. I am learning about perennials, salt tolerance, wind tolerance, rock gardening, storm surge, sand as soil, flowering rotations, and anger management. Yes, anger management. On any given day, I don't need the North Koreans, Democrats or Republicans to start my day off wrong. All I need to do is to walk out into my infant garden to see what was chomped the night before. Mind you, I have spent hours and hours choosing from "Deer Resistant" lists, although always noting the caveat that deer "might" nibble on just about anything with starvation pressures. But here we are in the middle of a lush summer, with the woods spreading out behind me for miles.
I have resorted to caging some plants, netting others, and even spraying the rest, all with spotty results at best.
My years in psychology push me to inquire....What do deer really want? Is it the tender leaf? Is it the newly planted gem? Is it the one that has gotten knee high, or those ground covers that can be hoovered up with a sway of the head? Psychology is perfectly subjective enough to answer this question. It seems that the deer only want what I want- nothing more, nothing less. They will bypass a large delicious place filler for the insignificant deer resistant gomphrena seedlings

Gomphrena globosa 'QIS Orange'

 I had nursed from their package to the "nip-it-in" the bud stage. I planted the deer resistant Scabiosa seedlings among the established Artemesia 'Silver Brocade'

Scabiosa atropurpurea and Artemesia 'Silver Brocade'

to protect them early on. That worked well until the monsters decided it was a delicious combination, and razed the entire bed. Last fall I had the brilliant idea of sowing poppies in the empty spaces I hoped to fill up in spring. Deer "never" touch poppies. Yet the "million seed" mix I purchased never produced one uneaten flower from any species but Eschscholzia californica- the California poppy- (hope it seeds in!!)
They'll wait until the night before I plan to make pesto for a company dinner to take every leaf of the sweet basil,

Sweet Basil

and, for good measure, pick most of the purple basil leaves off and spit them on the ground. They'll try to fake me out by just snipping off the new, very yellow tops of Sedum 'Angelina' or the red of

Sedum 'Sun Sparkler Firecracker'

Sedum 'Sunsparkler Firecracker', so as to make me wonder what happened to the color over night. And, hey- Martha Stewart, my Salvia elegans (pineapple sage)

Salvia elegans

was 2 1/2 ' when it started. Hasn't been over 5" since, and gets regularly mowed, leaves, stems and all. Yucca 'Color Guard', Hesperaloe parviflora flower stalk

Hesperaloe parviflora

, Sedum 'Sunsparkler Firecracker', Podocarpus macrophyllus 'Akame', Asclepias 'Gay Butterflies', Amsonia hubrichtii, Coreopsis 'Zagreb', Bronze Fennel, French Tarragon, Heliotropium arborescens....all mowed down; all "deer resistant". 

So I am making my own list, based on completely unscientific, but replicated trials of my own. That's the list I think we need.
I would love your feedback, too.


PLANTS DEER DO NOT EVER TOUCH

Shrubs

Buxus sempervirens ‘Variegata’

Cephalotaxus harringtonia ‘Duke Gardens’

Caryopteris x clandonensis 'Worchester Gold'

Cestrum parqui 'Orange Peel'

Edgeworthia chrysantha

Ficus carica

Illicium parviflorum ‘Florida Sunshine’

Juniperus virginiana ‘Hillspire’

Malvaviscus arboreus var drummondii

Michelia (Magnolia) figo

Olea europeaea

Spiraea thunbergia ‘Ogon’

Perennials

Acorus gramineus ‘Oborozuki’

Agastache rupestris

Ajuga reptans ‘Black Scallop’

Allium tuberosum

Amsonia hubrictii

Ardisia crenata

Artemesia x 'Powis Castle'

Carex elata

Carex glauca ‘Blue Danube’

Colocasia esculenta

Colocasia esculenta ‘Black Magic’

Colocasia esculenta ‘Mojito’

Crinum species

Crocosmia x ‘Lucifer’

Disporum cantoniense

Epimedium sulphureum

Euphorbia myrsinites

Euphorbia robbiae

Euphorbia wulfenii

Farfugium gigantean

Festuca glauca ‘Boulder Blue’

Iris germanica cvs

Iris louisiana ‘C’est Magnifique’

Iris tectorum

Juncus effusus

Molinia caerulea ‘Strahlenquelle’

Nasella tenuissima

Nepeta faassenii ‘Walker’s Low’

Osmunda regalis

Panicum virgatum ‘Shenandoah’

Phlomis russeliana

Rosmarinus officinalis

Salvia guaranitica 'Amistad'

Salvia greggii

Teucrium fruticans

Santolina rosmarinifolia

Illicium parviflorum 'Florida Sunshine'

 http://www.marthastewart.com/265284/deer-resistant-garden
http://deerresistantplants.com/cgi-bin/webc.cgi/st_main.html?p_catid=9

https://pender.ces.ncsu.edu/files/library/71/Deer%20Resistant%20Plants.pdf
http://pss.uvm.edu/ppp/articles/deerplants.html

Develop a passion for learning. If you do, you will never cease to grow. 

Anthony J. D'Angelo

I continue to trial plants to learn what really works. 
l hope this also means the plants in my garden will never cease to grow, too !

Just Ask Emily

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring –

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –

The Dews drew quivering and Chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses' Heads

Were toward Eternity –

 EMILY DICKINSON 

Our friend Charlotte died on Saturday. She was not terribly sick for very long, and walked willingly into the hands of God, as was her way. She spent the better part of the last year making sure that her friends and family knew that she was ready to go when she must. She pulled no punches.
Charlotte was a pistol - " a person with a lot of verve and personality, and the sort you don't forget."  She was an infectious gardener and plantswoman; a woman of both words and deeds; one smart cookie. She liked "pretty things". She loved to celebrate- she loved dinner parties, beer, wine, fancy hors d'oeuvres, candles and flowers, bourbon. She liked her food spicy, and her hugs big and tight. She was the driving force behind the Piedmont Gardeners Spring Garden Tour, held every third Saturday in April for the last 25 years. That tour not only encouraged the love of gardening in the Athens, Ga, area, but raised scholarship money to support horticulture and design students at UGA. And best of all, she was a beloved mother to her two girls, and dearest "Mimi" to her four granddaughters.

We got the news of her death on a visit to Massachusetts. We were there to visit our granddaughter Olive, but spent a little time doing other things while Olive was in school. One of those things was a tour of Emily Dickinson's house in Amherst. It has been a good long time since I have seriously read Emily's poetry, but there are a few poems whose first lines, at least, I remember. And it occurs to me now that the approach Emily Dickinson took with her poetry was much the same as Charlotte's approach to life and to death. She was straightforward, precise, directly to the point even on tough subjects, but with a creative flair, a lilt, maybe a sly wink.

The weekend would have been sad for us but for Olive.
Olive is a hoot. She's got a twinkle in her eye, and plan in her head. Her smiles and spark kept us energized, enthusiastic, swingin' and slidin'.

Olive is 21 months, but she can say most anything she wants. Her chatter is non-stop. If you say something to her, she'll repeat it. If you ask her something, she mostly nods and says "Yep". She loves reading, she loves puzzles, she loves being outside, she loves all sorts of food. She is pure joy to be with; a light touch to a heavy heart. I've spent some time mulling over the emotions stirred up over those few days. As it turns out, Emily had already figured it out for me, and put it in words that even I could understand.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

 EMILY DICKINSON

Lobal Warming

How about this weather? Everyone I know is asking that same question. Here we are at the end of February, and I'm in shorts and a T-shirt cutting grass and sowing vegetable seed outside. Something crazy is going on.

Some will tell you it's global warming. Maybe it is or maybe it isn't. But I am old enough to know that this isn't the first time we've had temperatures like this in  February.

It was a week at the end of February, 1974. We were all right in the middle of winter quarter, the horrible days of dark,cold, rain. Studies were going well, I guess, but who can remember that part? What I do remember is that the country was nearing a change in the Viet Nam war. College protests had really revved up just before I got to UGA in 1970. They still persisted thru the next several years, but nothing to the degree of those in the 60s. Even with the success of those protests, or maybe because of that success, college campuses like mine continued to look for a way to make a statement. But then, college students can have a bit of a short attention span. 

Apparently the idea of streaking had come from other college campuses here and there. http://www.history.com/speeches/the-streaking-phenomenon . It was probably a small but fun way to continue the thrill of civil disobedience. 

Spring break was weeks away at that point. It seemed like the sun never came out. Then, out of nowhere, it got warm. Not warmish....but hot warm, humid warm, summer warm. Kids got outside. Summer clothes appeared. The drudgery of every day college classes disappeared. Sex was in the air. Young brains were on fire. And the streaking began.

As with most social phenomena, it started small -just a few wacky guys, maybe on a dare. Then a few more, and a few more after that. The warm weather made it easier to do, and also gave the few an audience of the more since so many folks were outside enjoying the sun. Timing was random, but word seemed to get out. Campus was abuzz, distracted, seduced by the warmth and tantalized by the exposure. 

Spurred on by their peers, more and more joined the ranks of the naked. Fraternity brothers gathered in groups. Dormitories organized even larger packs of runners. The news was getting out to every student, then snowballing into the media across the Southeast. A little harmless fun was turning into a competitive sport across college campuses. Each day a new challenge was laid down and then met that night. By the end of the week, campus police had closed down whole streets because of the crowds. Thousands lined Baxter street, in the ultimate in food and drink tailgating, to watch the proceedings. The finale "big streak" produced 1543 bare bottomed beauties and a new national record.     http://www.redandblack.com/news/univ-cracks-streaking-record/article_83ee6175-ae24-517a-8157-f039dbd65197.html  

The next day, damp, gray, cold was back. 

Exams were looming.  The fever broke. As quick as it came, it was gone.

 But now, as the weather warms, we old folks can smile and remember.

“sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love

(all the merry little birds are
flying in the floating in the
very spirits singing in
are winging in the blossoming)

lovers go and lovers come
awandering awondering
but any two are perfectly
alone there's nobody else alive

(such a sky and such a sun
i never knew and neither did you
and everybody never breathed
quite so many kinds of yes)

not a tree can count his leaves
each herself by opening
but shining who by thousands mean
only one amazing thing

(secretly adoring shyly
tiny winging darting floating
merry in the blossoming
always joyful selves are singing)

sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love”

― E.E. Cummings

Back into the Fold

February 8, 2017. Noisy thunderstorms overnight, followed by a warm gentle rain most of the morning. Clearing skies around noon. Perfect time for a walk, followed by a little work in the yard.

We've had some cold weather this winter, for sure. But the temperature roller coaster has also crested over into the 70s several times, including today. I've been cleaning out the woods across from the house, mulching, killing weeds, all in anticipation of spring planting.

What's so remarkable is my overwhelming anticipation. No matter what other obligations and interests might be out there, no matter that the work is no longer a profession, I find myself pushing to get outside.. The first crocus flowers, the foliage of Tulipa clusiana, the Allium species showing buds..... all are due their close inspection, and  momentary appreciation, at least.

Really what I wanted, as the temperatures rose, was to put my hands in the dirt. It seemed cleansing, rejuvenating, and hopeful. But it was more than that. It was ritual, tradition, a solemn rite. Yes, the warm weather was welcome. True, the longer days were invigorating. But plunging my fingers into the cool, sandy black earth put me back into the fold; the order of the gardener. 

What makes this refuge so comfortable? In that sanctuary are gathered many souls, from then and now. We know the hour by the reach of shadow or the clench of petals; know the month by the swell of buds or the flourish of colors. We are immersed in the cosmos that is revealed moment by moment, plant by plant.

Those truest connections wash over us.

The work is hard. The harder the work, the more satisfying. The work is hot, or cold, or too dry, or too wet. We do what we can to mitigate. What we can't do, we yield to the great mother. It is a lesson in persistence, in humility, in optimism. And for me, it was always a lesson in finding the depth, the core, the bonds that make us a part of each other. 

My gardening friends know me, and I know them. There are few greater gifts than touching that knowledge every time you pick up a trowel.

May Sarton: "An Observation"

True gardeners cannot bear a glove

Between the sure touch and the tender root,

Must let their hands grow knotted as they move

With a rough sensitivity about

Under the earth, between the rock and shoot,

Never to bruise or wound the hidden fruit.

And so I watched my mother's hands grow scarred,

She who could heal the wounded plant or friend

With the same vulnerable yet rigorous love;

I minded once to see her beauty gnarled,

But now her truth is given me to live,

As I learn for myself we must be hard

To move among the tender with an open hand,

And to stay sensitive up to the end

Pay with some toughness for a gentle world.

Photography credit: Detail from "Farmer's Strong, Work Toughened Hands Planting in the Garden," by Ed Clark (originally black and white).