Category Archives: gardening

9/11 Postscript

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After all of my hand wringing yesterday afternoon, perspective arrived in the evening.  After a patchy, overcast weather all day, a thin stripe of sunshine lit the trees across the pond followed by a pink sky, promising a lovely day today. 

And as I watched the full moon rise after the light faded, my boy mention as he passed me, “I planted a seed in your garden today.”

“You did?”

“Yes.  I planted my nectarine pit in the garden so that it would grow into a tree.”

Never much of a gardener before, I began planting new things each September since 2001 as a way of reminding myself to appreciate where I am now and to invest hope in the coming spring.  The result is a garden that gives me more joy than I ever imagined.  This year’s bulbs sit in a box in the garage waiting to be planted, but it’s good to know something went into the ground on the 11th.  Now, to figure out where he planted it and keep the chipmunks away from it.

Finally, we stumbled on the Science Channel’s Rising: Rebuilding Ground Zero and it was gratifying to see something emerging, at last, from the ashes of that day.  No false reality TV drama, just stories and extraordinary images of the new buildings and the memorial and how they are being built.  The series is several hours long and worth every minute.  Thank you, Steven Spielberg.

 

Last Tomato

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We have a sweet children’s book called First Tomato, in which a young bunny picks the first ripe tomato and her mother makes her fresh tomato soup.  Only after downloading this photo did I notice that the morning light reveals tiny spiderwebs on the tomato plants, a harbinger of Halloween.  Taken just a few days ago, it already harkens back to seemingly distant, definitely brighter summer days, and I am hoping that the remaining tomatoes will ripen before the frost arrives.  We wait all through June and July and into August for that first tomato, but we never can be sure when we will eat the last, finding sometimes that the days have gotten too short and we have waited too long.

A Midsummer’s Garden Reflection by Verlyn Klinkenborg

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I have only recently come to understand the allure of gardening and the reward of its cumulative experiences, but I have always admired Verlyn Klinkenborg’s writing (see links at right) about gardens and the parade of the seasons.  Today’s essay in the Times brightens further a Sunday morning in July.

Winter Storm Warning

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I know it’s getting to me when. . .

  • I look at my calendar and try to think of reasons to get out of every appointment on it.
  • I tell everyone on Facebook to put out their flags for Veteran’s Day and promptly forget to do it myself.
  • My family has to get their clean underwear (and pretty much anything else) from the huge pile of unfolded laundry in the corner of my bedroom.
  • Making the bed means the bedspread is pulled up over the pillows.
  • The fridge looks like my Mom’s – four cartons of half and half (two open), three half-empty bottles of ketchup, six pounds of butter, eight kinds of salad dressing, three bottles of beer that no one likes, cheese with sell by dates from last June and no milk.
  • I don’t care if W. takes his stuffed Wallace & Gromit sheep to the restaurant and gets an extra seat, napkin and menu for it.
  • I stop watching The Daily Show and the Colbert Report.
  • I do all of my reading online.
  • I am more interested in my Farmville Garden on Facebook than I am in my actual garden.
  • Salad consists of lettuce and cucumber.  Every night.
  • I don’t like answering or talking on the phone.
  • I give one-word answers to questions:  ”Okay.”  ”Fine” “Thanks.”
  • I avoid opening any e-mail with “autism” in the subject line.
  • I buy a whole pomegranate.

The August of Benign Neglect

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Summer arrived too late and fall has appeared early. As Jimmy Carter once pointed out, life is not fair. Now that it is cool enough to take a close look at the garden I see that nature is making a mad dash to correct itself. The yellowed greens of September are showing the effects of a rainy July; echinacea and black eyed susans that grew too quickly once the sun appeared in August have flopped over in exhaustion, spent from the sheer excitement of a whole summer in a single month. And the day lilies, still confused by it all, are flowering randomly when they should have been finished in July. The zinnias fell prey to the Japanese beetles just as soon as they went in, and even the daisies gave up in disgust after weeks of rain. The tomatoes are trying to forgive and forget, this being my first year and all, but only the tiny yellow pear variety yields a daily bite or two, which I nibble for lunch (that way I don’t have to share). The sedum, just ready to bloom, is swamped with bees while the lobelia saunters through in cornflower blue, oblivious to it all. See? I have brought you mums as a peace offering for not paying attention to you all month.