of False Starts and Flowery Finishes

Armed with the Nikon F-301 film camera my son gave me, and a fresh roll of film, I set off to Kanapaha Botanical Gardens bright and early. And, on the pretense of keeping it running properly while he is away on deployment, I also took his sporty convertible instead of my boxy Honda. You can't be too careful about vehicular maintenance!

I had been looking forward to seeing the gardens again. Kanapaha has a couple of big plant sales each year, the biggest of which are Spring and Fall. In the fall, the accompanying orchid show is a treat, and I was eager to work with my camera some more.

Arriving at the Gardens, I followed the somewhat circuitous path indicated by the kids volunteering from NJROTC, and made my way to the parking area in a field out in the back forty. Entering from the far side of the park, the first stop is the Water Gardens and I positioned myself for what I hoped would the first of more than a few terrific, if lucky, shots and pushed the button. The camera made a lugging noise, beeped uncooperatively several times, and then refused to do anything else. I'm no engineer, but I deduced that perhaps the batteries were dead so.....

Back to the car I traipsed...back out the winding path to the main road...and off to the nearest gas station. OK, so maybe I'm a bit of an idiot, but I had a dickens of a time figuring out where the batteries went. But about the time the Indian behind the counter inside was probably starting to wonder what on earth I was doing out there, I located a little screwy knob on the bottom of the camera and - voila - battery compartment. That little chore done, back to the Gardens I drove...back around the circuitous path...back to the parking field to a new and improved spot which offered shade under an oak tree (and also birdy poopy on the seats when I returned later in the afternoon)...and back to the Water Gardens.

The Water Gardens, including its ponds, streams and waterfalls, as well as irrigation throughout the park, are supplied with reclaimed water from Gainesville Regional Utilities' nearby Kanapaha Water Treatment Plant. The reclaimed water is high in nitrogen and phosphorous, and the perfect brew for the many species of water plants, including the world's largest water lily, Amazonian Water Platters. Now, all that greenie stuff is well and good, but what I really like is feeding the koi!

Electing to bypass the orchid show and plant sale for the moment, I entered the path which winds from Garden to Garden, meandering around the periphery of a wide expanse of meadow which is the center of the park.

The first display is the Vinery, where wisteria and Confederate jasmine cover the arbors and trellises. Bumblebees and butterflies feast on nectar from more types of flowering vines than I can name, including honeysuckle, passion flower, and lace ferns.

From there, the path leads into the Nature Trail where, on your right, is a giant ship's anchor found off the coast of St. Augustine, the oldest city in America, in 1939.

The Nature Trail is North Central Florida in her next-to-natural state. The meandering path curves though an at once wild, and well tended, hardwood hammock of native species such as cabbage palm, Southern Magnolia, live oak, laurel and sugarberry trees. And, as is not uncommon in this part of Florida, the Nature Trail also offers prime examples of sink holes!

The long path through the shady Nature Trail opens up into the enormous Herb Garden, which is tended by my friend, Jonathan. Hundreds of herbs, for countless purported applications, are arranged in geometrical, maze-like patters. The "Knot Garden," though now past its seasonal prime, is planted in a classical Celtic knot. Informational signs offer names and uses of each plant, some of which are familiar and some highly unusual.



According to ancient writings, Buddha found enlightenment sitting under a Bo Tree. This is Jonathan doing his best to get a clue under a Bo sapling! It takes a Bo Tree hundreds of years to mature, so this may take a while! ;)

One of my favorite displays at Kanapaha Gardens is the bamboo forest, which is the largest collection of bamboo in the state. It is peaceful there, in the shade of hundred-foot-tall forests. The wind rustles the leaves and gently rattle the canes, as water trickles from the shishi-odoshi fountain.

Walking slowly, trying to take it all in, I made my way from garden to garden. Each time I walk the paths I see something I missed before; some new treasure of Nature, the simple appreciation of which brings me peace and contentment.The photos didn't come out half-bad, either!

(click to enlarge)

Hey, come back here!

Despite my specific request for a long, Indian Summer, Mother Nature is toying with the idea of changing the seasons on me. She's been vacillating about it for a few weeks now, dropping a cool morning here and there, before waffling right back to the customary 95-degree heat and 95% humidity of a late summer in central Florida.

She seems to be getting a bit more serious about it now. I awakened this morning to a crisp 55-degrees and only 80% humidity. The activity at the hummingbird feeder has slowed to virtually nil; my brave, wee friends have departed for their 20-hour, non-stop flight across the Gulf to Mexico. I miss them already. Late summer flowers are fading, and the sun is getting lazier about getting up in the mornings. The nurseries are all stocking orange and gold chrysanthemums (gack!). Fat acorns, ignored by squirrels who are more interested in the never-ending cornucopia of free sunflower seeds in my feeder, are pelting my car and falling unheeded to the ground. There may be a sad correlation between this and the wisdom and effectiveness of some of our social programs, but I digress.

Despite the protestations of this hater-of-all-things-cold, it is evident Summer is truckling happily away behind Mother Nature, without giving me so much as a backward glance. I suppose the only thing left to do is embrace Fall, if somewhat begrudgingly. In keeping with that vaguely positive attitude, I am enjoying the late-blooming purple ginger and will be attending the annual Fall plant sale and orchid show at Kanapaha Gardens this weekend.

Hey, just trying to do my part!

A Country Mouse in the Duckpond

It’s been years since I have had neighbors less than acres away, or paid a water bill, or had a street light, or suffered from a paucity of parking. But, through a series of complex events - the sort through which life sometimes has a way of herding us in unexpected directions - I suddenly found myself the proud payment-maker on a charming little house in the Duckpond.

Though the decision to move to The Big City had been made, “Plan A” entailed dipping my toe in the pond before plunging in head-first, and I was shopping for a rental house in the neighborhood. By some folks’ standards you “pay more for less” in the Duckpond but no other place in the city has the same feel to it, the same sense of history, pride and community. I love the varied architectural style of the old homes, each with their own story, the tree-lined streets, and character of the neighborhood, and that you can step out the front door to any number of things to see and do. I knew this was where I wanted to live.

After several days of driving around looking for rentals I stopped in front of a newly-placed For Sale sign on 5^th Street. The unimposing, little 1957 concrete block house wasn’t going to make the history books, but it had an air about it and, out of curiosity, I called the listing agent to obtain permission to let myself in. From the terrazzo floors and funky kitchen cabinets which remind me of my Mamaw’s, to the open beams in the dining room and esoteric bamboo and Japanese wisteria trellis in the back yard, when I crossed the threshold for the first time…I was home.

Thoughts of a rental clattered to the wayside, replaced with the requisite brief waltzing over the price, and 24 hours later a contract was signed. Thanks to having a bank president for a friend and well-established relationships with title companies and appraisers and such, we closed seven days later. I’m not sure whose head was spinning more – mine or the seller’s – but I began moving in that afternoon, passing him in the doorway as he hauled out his last load.

May 2^nd was my “one-year anniversary” of being a city girl, and four more months have come and gone since then. I have yet to regret my move, and know I never will, but it’s been a bit of an adjustment.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve lived in the city before. As long as they don’t give me too many choices, I know which fork to use when, and enough about wine to fake it with a snob. I clean up pretty well when I need to, appreciate the arts, and know when it’s okay to talk politics and when it’s better to hush (usually the latter). I know how to dress for a cocktail party and if I scrounge around in the back of my closet I can probably dig out the dress for it, but it’s been a while and I’m not sure it fits anymore.

I moved to The Country a lot of years ago. Like too many folks, life didn’t work out according to my youthful grand master plan and I ended up divorced and alone with two babies I was determined to “raise right” in an area where the schools were fast turning wrong. So nine years ago I moved from crowded south-central Florida to rural north-central Florida, finding myself in tiny Mayo, 75 miles northwest of Gainesville.

Mayo is the only town in Lafayette County, through which runs the famous Suwannee River. It’s an anachronistic step back in time where everybody knows everybody and, by the way, their business. Values, faith, and family run deep, and most residents were born and raised there. It’s a “dry” county with one traffic light - a veritable ghost-town on Sundays, when everything shuts down and everyone goes to church. Performing Arts are limited to listening to the high school marching band play “We Will Rock You” at a Friday night football game, and if it’s not related to school sports, church, or hunting season, there’s not much in the way of extracurricular activities.

Downtown Mayo is two blocks long, and when you drive down the street you recognize most everyone you see; a smile and a friendly wave are intrinsic to life there. There’s a lot of chewing tobacco, pickup trucks, well-worn work clothes and camouflage. The crime rate is virtually nil, the kids still say “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am,” and the whole town turns out for a home game. The community has strong UF ties and for us die-hard Gator fans Mayo is better known as the home town of Kerwin Bell, “The Throwin’ Mayoan” (if I have to explain it, you wouldn’t understand). It wasn’t Shangri-La, mind you, but it was a simple life with a lot of good people and I am grateful for the years I spent there. But after my nest was emptied it was not without its limitations.

So here I am in Gainesville starting over; enjoying the culture, diversity, and general “busy-ness” the city affords. I don’t recognize the people I pass on the street anymore, but I have met some really great neighbors. Frank and I chat over the fence, while his dog Bentley carries on, barking for all he’s worth (which is a fair amount judging by the ruckus he can make). I’ve met a fine young man by the name of Hunter, whose grandma pushes him in his stroller. John and Larre and their friends play Irish traditional music that fills the house and touches my heart. Brenda, who lives a few blocks east of me, has a lovely voice and sings jazz at Emiliano’s on Mondays. I’ve chatted with Howard in the drizzle after a storm, helped Jim fix his computer, and passed the time with Mike and Doug while our dogs galloped about the dog park.

I’ve been to art shows and visited the Museum of Natural History and Butterfly Rainforest. I’ve ridden the Gainesville-to-Hawthorne trail on my bicycle (well, part of it anyway), and accidentally ended up at a children’s piano recital at the Thomas Center one evening, which turned out to be my favorite cultural highlight since moving here. I bicycle to the Farmer’s Market downtown on Wednesdays, picking up fresh organic fruits, vegetables and honey; Friday evenings it’s a walk to the free music concerts, and I hear there are swing dance lessons at the Thelma Bolton Center on Tuesdays.

There’s no more hauling smelly garbage ten miles to the dump (did you know they actually pick it up at the curb?!) and I’ve learned to recycle everything under the shining sun. It used to take me half a day on a 26 hp., zero-radius mower with a 48” deck to get the lawn done; now all it takes is a weed-eater and ten minutes. What’s not to love!? It’s not 35 miles to Publix anymore, but a five-minute pedal, and if I feel like a bottle of Pinot Noir I don’t have to drive across two counties to get it. A license plate is more likely to read “BEATNIK” now, rather than “GOTMILK”, and bumper stickers proclaim “Coexist” instead of “You Eat Because I Farm”.

I attended an art gala at the Thomas Center shortly after moving to the Duckpond. On display was a collection of plein air paintings by dozens of artists portraying the byways and countryside of rural north Florida. Stroke of brush illustrated tractors and fields, cattle grazing in serene pastures, sunsets over crop rows, country stores, dirt roads and barbed-wire fences, old folks with old ways on old porches…the life I left behind. City folks in Birkenstocks sipped merlot and admired the paintings and there wasn’t a muddy workboot nor tobacco chaw anywhere in site. It was a strange, incongruous feeling to stand there in this new place, gazing at the paintings of the old place only an hour - and yet a world - away.

I realized a page in my life had been forever turned.

Full of unknown promise, new beginnings are a wonderful and scary place to be when you’re starting over alone in what amounts to a whole new world. A lot of things have changed and the transition hasn’t been without its hurdles. An old dog who had his run of woods and fields for his twelve years walks around the Duckpond with me now. He had to learn what a leash was and I had to learn about pooper-scooping. We’ve come a long way, baby!

Erstwhile and innovative, demure and diverse, tradition with an eclectic perspective - the Duckpond is home now and I love it here. This country mouse and her old dog are making our adjustments. We’re where we belong and we’re happy in our little house on Fifth Street.

War is Hell...

... and the fact that the skirmishes take place in the back yard over sugar water make it no less a pitched battle.

Some 14' from my kitchen window stands an Asian pergola. From the end of the cross frame closest to the window is suspended a hummingbird feeder. Beneath the feeder is a row of mature azaleas taller than my head; above it, suspended from the pergola, is a thick covering of Japanese wisteria. Still higher up is an oak tree, the tippy-branches of which serve as lookout posts, offering 360-degree vantage points for hyper-vigilant Ruby-throated hummingbirds who defend the red plastic feeder with tireless vengeance.

The airborne skirmishes over the endless and ever-fresh supply of nectar are fierce; the fussing, threatening chirps, and dive-bombing constant. If I happen to have the audacity to sit in the chairs in the vicinity of the feeder, I, too, am cursed vehemently. While reading the other afternoon, a bossy little flying ace whizzed past my head, fussing as she flew, and dropped a tiny bomb directly on my book! If Baron von Richthofen had been half as determined, WWI might have had a whole different outcome!

This afternoon, standing at the kitchen window, I watched a battle won not with brawn, but brains. One of the smaller females was being bullied away from the feeder, chased relentlessly by a larger one. They circled each other mid-air, lunging and chirping, until the littler girl darted into the azaleas for cover and respite. Her pursuer hovered just outside the foliage, head cocking side-to-side, searching for her target. Unable to spot her prey, she flew upward to the oak branches to keep angry watch over the approaches to the feeder.

Moments passed and then, from the far end of the row of azaleas where the branches are thickest, emerged the little girl. Stealthily, cautiously, she skirted up the edge of the shrubs to the feeder, keeping under the cover of the wisteria as she flew. As Frau Dominatrix glared confidently about the yard, Little Girl sipped lunch peacefully undetected directly beneath her tormentor.

War is hell, but the victory does not always go to the most swift and strong. Sometimes you gotta run away so you can return to fight another day. And being sneaky doesn't hurt, either!

Taking Care of Baby

In years long-passed, my gardening efforts might have been considered a little haphazard. Though not without good intentions (and we know which road those pave), my horticultural knowledge, advance preparation, and follow-through were sometimes at a bit of a paucity. I was a too-young single mother trying to raise two kids right, working a job or two at a time, and scrambling to keep up with the multitude of life's demands. Plants in my care were often given a stern lecture when plopped unceremoniously into unprepared holes: "If you're going to hang with me, you're going to have to hang tough. I don't have time to mollycoddle you. Water, feeding, attention to pests and disease, and protection in winter will be touch and go. But buck up, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger!" Some embraced the challenge like soldiers; others languished on the spot and demanded to be returned to the nursery.

The kids are grown and gone now, and I have a little more time on my hands. And though still not without my share of gardening blunders, a lot more thought, study, and effort go into it these days. But nothing compares to the effort put forth for the newest arrival.

By the time the UPS guy pulled up to the curb with my little Tamukeyama Japanese maple, I had been working on its new home for two days. I'd read, and re-read, the planting and care instructions on Pacific Coast Maples' web site. The sego palm had been removed, and, in a carefully selected location, had I dug out a hole 6' in diameter and six inches deeper than I suspected the root ball would be. I turned over the soil, removed debris, gently put earthworms back in the pile, and mixed 50% of the original soil together with equal amounts of mushroom compost and Black Kow. A light dash of acidic fertilizer, such as you would use for azaleas, camellias and hydrangeas, was stirred in to the mix. I finished preparation 30 minutes before the arrival of my prize.

Safely packed in a box inside a box and carefully tied to a tall bamboo stake, my wee maple wasn't much worse for the wear for its trip all the way across the country. I had been warned to expect a bit of stress-induced color loss in the leaves, which would normally be a richer purple-green this time of year. Other than that, there was a small amount of browning to the tips of one area of delicate leaf tips, but that, too, was to be expected. Overall, it was a lovely specimen and a healthy tree. Thirty minutes after landing on my sidewalk on the 10th of July, she was planted in her new home and being watered. She didn't get the "hang tough" speech from days of yore; instead I promised the moon and years of adulation and doting pampering to come.

When she was tucked in for the night I couldn't help but stand back and admire my little sapling, imagining what it would look like throughout the seasons, year after year....

Three days later the browning and curling of the leaf tips had spread considerably and, like a mother whose new baby has the sniffles for the first time, I suspected the worst and flew into a panic. After years of dreaming of having one of these trees, considerable expense (on my laughable budget anyway), and significant preparation, my baby was sick! What to do!?

I took photographs of the leaves from all directions and, together with a detailed description of the planting steps and current symptoms, emailed them to "Dr." Greg at Pacific Coast Maples. He called me back and patiently assured me all was well. He had looked at the photos carefully and could see that, though I might lose a few leaves, the buds themselves were still quite healthy. He reassuringly went over the care and maintenance with me again, and spent far more time with me than my perfectly healthy paltry purchase warranted.

But the babying, Black Kow, and sweet-talking have paid off. The browning ceased, leaf loss was at a minimum, and in two short weeks my little tree has grown a full four inches (I measured). A delicate burst of lacy, bright, crimson leaves have sprouted from the top, with new buds are unfurling every day.

Aw, isn't she beautiful!

"Christmas in July" or "What I Did on My Summer Vacation"

Saint Nick left his red ride and reindeer with the missus today; he's coming in a big brown truck, sporting brown shorts, and he'll be here sometime this afternoon. I know, because I just tracked his progress and he and my present are "out for delivery."

I'm waiting somewhat impatiently (and very excitedly) for his arrival, standing ready with a shovel, Black Kow, and mushroom compost. I've been very good, you see - angelic, really - which (together with sole possession of a Visa card) has earned me this festive July visit. And boy, is he ever bringing me something cool!

A Japanese maple.

I fell in love with Japanese maples, in their diminutive bonsai form, as a child. I remember like it was yesterday - dozens of enchanting arrangements, many sporting their fall colors, at a bonsai show at the state fair. I was probably 8 or 9 and, other than taking the Pepsi challenge (which I intentionally threw because, who can't tell the difference between Pepsi and Coke, and why go

Image via Wikipedia

along with the crowd?), those trees are about all I remember of that day. Some stood alone, weathered and craggy, bending over rocky cliffs; others were planted in groups of forest glade, tiny pathways worn between the mossy trunks. I'm pretty sure I saw a faerie darting behind one.

That day, more years ago than I care to calculate, began my love of bonsai, Japanese gardens, and maples in particular. In later years, I can remember my dad speaking wistfully and with great fondness about the beauty of Japan, where he was stationed during the Korean war. Well into his 70's he taught himself to read Japanese music and play the shakuhachi (wooden flute) , many of which he built himself, until the arthritis in his hands and weakness of heart and breath forced him to lay them aside.

I've never owned a maple or bonsai, let alone visited Japan, but I've read many books and done lots of coveting. But now the time has come and I've been getting ready for weeks, transforming my little yard on a small budget, to a home worthy of its soon-to-arrive sapling.

Hot, humid Florida is not the most conducive environment for a maple. In addition, the allotted space in my wee yard wouldn't allow for a large tree, so I've done a lot of research in what to buy and where to plant it. Consensus has it that the Tamukeyama, a Japanese Acer Palmatum cultivar traceable to the early 1700's, with its high tolerance of heat and humidity, and 7'-10' size at maturity, was my best bet. The Tamukeyama is a lovely, weeping lace leaf which changes with the seasons from crimson-red, to red-purple, to scarlet in the fall. The dainty Tamukeyama has won a Gold Medal from the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society and the experts agree it is the most sun resistant of all the Japanese maple dissectums. They say it's the "connoisseurs' choice in red dissectums."

Yeah, that's me - a conniesuer.

Unable to locate a Tamukeyama locally, and after scouring the 'Net and talking to several nursery owners who underwhelmed me, I settled on Pacific Coast Maples, a nursery in Temeculah, California which specializes in Japanese maples, as my source. I spent a great deal of time on the phone with the owners, Greg and Jordana, who patiently provided a wealth of information in addition to the scads already on their web site. They have an enormous selection of maples, including bonsais. I described to Greg my loosely formulated schemes of grandeur to be implemented as time and money allowed, and his maple's star role in them: the maple in the front corner of the yard, just in front of the Golden Goddess bamboo; a little Japanese shishi-odoshi (deer scarer) bamboo water fountain in the foreground, tipping water into my brown pottery bowl; a Japanese lantern; large stones here and there; and a Japanese arbor across the path. He was enthusiastic about my plan and assured me he would hand-select the very best specimen he had within my small price range. He and Jordana treated me as if I were buying a $1000 specimen instead of just a sapling.

There's been a lot of work to get done in preparation for my maple's arrival. A 7' sego palm had to be removed from the place the maple will grace. I'm not a fan of palms to begin with (though these originate in Japan and it would have added a nice touch), but mostly it was getting bigger by the day and would have overpowered my maple from day one. I did some horse-trading with the old guy who owns the aptly named Hillybilly Rocks; he and his son dug it out (or rather his son dug while he supervised), and in exchange brought me 900 pounds of Tennessee field stone. I've spent the last two days tearing out ugly shrubs, digging holes, transplanting lariope as filler, and arranging huge rocks I could barely roll, let alone lift; I ache in places I didn't know I had.

I tore out the old wrought iron arbor at the head of my walkway which, it turned out, was sunk in the ground attached to rebar driven 4' deep. Nothing is ever as easy as I thought it would be. I was kind of sorry to see the jasmine go with it, but we all have to make sacrifices. The day the new arbor arrived was a big deal, too. It came requiring assembly, but the kit wasn't short any parts, the directions were clear and concise (two miracles back-to-back), and - God bless the guy who invented the electric screwdriver - it only took me about 45 minutes to put together. Getting it moved to its permanent location a little further up the walkway than the original arbor, and sinking it in concrete by myself was another story, but I was delighted with the end result.




All in all, it's been a productive week. I haven't accomplished everything I set out to do with my mini-vacation, but I have two days left. I think I may need them to recuperate!

Power wash house

Power wash fence

Power wash garbage cans

Paint side and back of house

Clean back porch

Replace locks on front door

Paint inside and outside of front door

Prepare ground for maple

Replace trellis

Transplant roses?

Spray waterproofing on fence

Paint kanji on door

Replace post lamp

Put in water garden

Dig out sego palm

Now where is the guy in the brown truck with my tree!?

Does this mean I'm not a purist?

I've been reading a lot about Japanese and Zen gardens of late.

The ancient Japanese masters taught that a garden should "be naturally clean like a forest glade, but not aggressively neat." "A boy or an old man," they said, "was best entrusted with the sweeping and cleaning" of a garden, "because they would not be too painstaking. Leaves that have been blown about under the trees and between the stones look interesting and should not be disturbed." *

I have neither old man nor young boy to direct in the tidying of my garden, but I have found that a leaf-blower, used sporadically, has about the same end result in a quarter of the time, with a lot less whining, expense, and aggravation as a whole.





* A Japanese Touch For Your Garden, Kiyoshi Seike

Two steps forward and five steps back...

Remember the comic strip "Family Circus"?

Every now and then the artist would draw a sequence in which the harried mother would ask one of the youngsters to do a simple chore. "Go next door and borrow a cup of sugar from Grandma."

Junior would happily trot out the door, cup in hand, and immediately become irretrievably side-tracked. A little dashed line would track his progress (or lack thereof) as he trekked about the neighborhood doing everything BUT borrowing that cup of sugar.

My yard work is a lot like that.

Yesterday I decided the most pressing job at hand was to spray the wooden privacy fence (which has seen better days, but I can't afford to replace it, so I have to take care of it) with water sealant. So I headed to my local home improvement giant to buy sealant and one of those pump pressure sprayers with which to apply it.

I first stopped at customer service to return an item it turned out I didn't need after all. Immediately thereafter I was side-tracked by the flowers (a foregone conclusion) and yard ornaments, and found the perfect gorgeous big, cobalt blue pot to use for a bamboo water fountain I'm planning in the future. It took me some time to select it; there was a great brown one, too, with a turquoise-blue interior, and I had a hard time deciding between the two. I also remembered several other items I needed, including duct tape (for an issue with insulation around AC ducts in my attic), light bulbs, paint thinner for clean-up, and two bags of water softener salt.

Congratulating myself on remembering the other sundries, I ambled to the pump sprayers. After standing in front of a selection of half a dozen for several minutes, trying to decide which one to get, it suddenly dawned on me that I already had one in my storage shed.

Time to head to the checkout counter.

While pushing my shopping buggy out to the car, looking at my big blue bowl, I decided I should have gotten the brown one; it was more natural-looking and would better fit the wabi-sabi Japanese style I'm working toward in my yard.

Back inside the store to the return counter; then to select which one of the two available brown pots I wanted (no-brainer cuz one of them had more blue inside); and back to the checkout girl who looked at me like I was a nut case, and possibly up to something. Obviously, she doesn't garden.

By the time I got back home it had started to rain, which brought my fence-spraying plans to a halt.

This morning I got up bright and early (well, bright anyway) with the grandest of intentions and headed outside. In looking at the fence in question, I decided it had a fair amount of green moldy gunk on it and that I was going to have to bleach it before treating it with water sealant.

But before I could bleach it I was going to have to mend the hose I had accidentally lopped in half (in two places, don't ask me how, I don't want to talk about it, but it could happen to anyone) with my big branch clippers a couple of weeks ago.

Now, in order to mend the hose, which was lying over by two pots of bamboo on a side of the house I rarely visit because it's a jungle, I had to go get my pruners to cut out the two sections where I'd gouged the hose with the clippers. By the time I'd gathered everything I needed to fix the hose and gotten the job done (it took longer than it should have because one of the four hose clamps was boogered and wouldn't close properly), 30 minutes had gone by.

Then, as I was gathering up tools and cleaning up my work area, I noticed the bamboo was looking overgrown, and had a lot of dead-looking stalks. Since I had my pruners handy...another half-hour gone by.

Pruners still at the ready, I began to make my way about the back yard looking for strays that needed clipping (it's a never-ending job), and before it was over with, I'd watered all the hydrangeas, filled the water softener with salt, duct-taped the air vent in the attic, got stung by a bee in the armpit (I'm not making this stuff up), the big clippers had come out of the shed for more serious pruning, a huge pile of stuff had been hauled to the curb, and another hour and a half had slipped away.

Finally, back to the job at hand. I filled up my little pump sprayer with bleach

Image via Wikipedia

and water, deciding that was going to be the easiest way to bleach the fence. But the pressure was so weak, I opted to haul out the gas-powered pressure washer. I hooked up my newly repaired hose, burned a large hole in the grass pouring the bleach from the pump sprayer into the power washer tank, turned on the water (hose bib in front of house, had to trek out front), and BLEWSH! - I guess I didn't get that boogered hose clamp quite tight enough - the whole thing blew apart.

So. Ask me if I got the fence sprayed. Go ahead, ask me. Nope. Not a drop. And now I'm hot and sweaty, sitting in the AC eating cereal, and thinking maybe mossy green isn't such a bad color for a fence after all.

It's a wonder I get anything done.

But isn't my brown bowl pretty!

virtually nothing to do with gardening...

...unless you count that I'm sitting in one.

It's 11:37 p.m. on the 24th of June. In 23 minutes I will be 45 years old.

Gosh, that sounds like a lot.

But as gray hair, dulling skin, gravity-challenged body parts, and crows feet creep slowly, but surely, upon me...life is good.

If I looked back over my shoulder at the year gone by it would be easy to reflect with maudlin mood on the substantial hardships it held. But I can't help but put behind me the sorrows of days I cannot retrieve, and look forward instead with anticipation at the year before me. If I allow myself a backward glance it is only so I might see the mistakes I made (and there were a few) and remember not to make them again.

Because, despite tears and loss in the vapor that was the last 365 days, I have been given many blessings. And though they may not seem like much to folks who measure success with yardsticks different than my own, the small joys make me happy; in them I find peace.

The crickets are chirping their nocturnal symphony; a soft breeze stirs the bamboo; an owl is hooting in the distance; and an old dog lies contentedly at my feet.

I am 45 now, and I look forward to whatever the coming year holds.

From the outset I think it's important to be forthright. If you've come here looking for sage and learned gardening advice, you've probably come to the wrong place.

Now, I'm not saying I haven't learned a thing or two from trial and error along the way. And, though what I know won't take long to pass along, I'm happy to share it with you. But I'm no garden guru. The joke about keeping the marigolds alive is a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.

What I am, though, is a lover of the outdoors, of growing things; and a great experimenter. I'm also somewhat easily distracted by enticing rabbit trails and just as apt to change paths with my gardening plan as I am to stick to it, a fact which has made my local home improvement giant more money than I ever intended to give them.

In fact, just this morning, while looking around the yard and cursing the weeds, snails, and moles which seem to have proliferated with the last several weeks' rain, I realized how like my life-plan is my gardening plan. I kinda-sorta know what I want to do with the space and time allotted, but not exactly. In both cases nothing turns out like I planned and I never have enough cash-flow to live up to the grandeur of my schemes and dreams; but they're as like as not to morph into something entirely unexpected, so I never let that bother me. The dreaming of a thing is half the fun anyway.

My garden plan at the moment is loosely Asian in theme, which is a bit difficult to pull off given my threadbare budget, allotted space, and climate. I'm in zone 8b here, which means that it's humid and hotter than H-E-double-hockeysticks in the summer, and slightly sub-freezing for short stretches in the winter. Not hot enough year-round to be tropical like Miami, but not cold enough to really kill off the bugs. Add to the mix that I have a strange penchant for flowers ranging from coral to orange and blue to purple-black, and the plan becomes even more dodgy. (Purple and orange Asian flowers in zone 8b? Yeah, I'll get back to you on that.)

But I have plans. Big ones. I can see it all now.

I bought this place by accident. Seriously. I didn't plan to buy a house, but somehow it worked out that way. Without waxing maudlin, a little over a year ago life as I knew it imploded around me and I relocated on impulse and instinct. ("Must...get...out...of here...!") My quickly constructed, loosely drafted, and possibly somewhat ill-conceived plan was to find a place to rent, get the lay of the land for a year or so, get my real estate business off the ground again (ha!), and then maybe buy. I scouted the city, quickly finding the neighborhood I wanted (more on that later) and spent the next week looking for rentals.

It didn't take a week to figure out I couldn't afford to rent in this neighborhood. But on my fourth day of hunting I spotted a brand new For Sale sign. Long story short, I fell in love with a funky little 1957 2/1 house with terrazzo floors, open-beam ceiling in the dining room (read: no insulation) and original cabinetry and ghastly blue bath fixtures. Ten days later the bank and I owned the place. I moved in the day the seller moved out.

I'm pretty sure the previous owner, a sweet Irishman named Maurice, didn't have a gardening plan, either. Unless maybe the plan was to do as little yard work as possible. The postage stamp of grass loosely defined as the back yard was 18'x24' and surrounded by a thick periphery of shrubs and ferns which thought they owned the place. I hauled 15 lawn bags of leaves off that little 432 square foot patch of grass the first week, and Lord-knows how many since then.

But the cool thing about the yard was this: During the aforementioned life-implosion, I'd been thinking that if I could build any house I wanted it would be one with an Oriental spirit to it. I could see it all in my mind: rice paper partitions, sleek lines, open and airy spaces, bamboo cabinetry, sandalwood...beauty and calm in simplicity.

Now, this "historically contributing" little concrete block house with its blue bathtub didn't quite fit that bill, but Maurice had planted patches of bamboo in several places about the yard; built a an Oriental-looking trellis for Japanese wisteria in the patio area; and had placed a little ornamental pagoda in its own rock garden in the back corner. Lovely, old azaleas line three sections of the yard, and you have to walk under a bamboo archway to get to the front door.


The beginnings for my imaginings were already in place. I couldn't afford to build my dream house, but I could rebuild my dreams with the blessings at hand.

In the beginning....

I first thought about writing this blog several weeks ago. I was gardening at the time - filthy, sweaty, and bug-bitten – thinking happy thoughts about what was doubtless a profound and brilliant topic, the subject matter of which I can no longer recall (I knew I’d forget it if I didn’t write it down).

I don't think it's any coincidence that cognitive life began in a Garden...nor that, for those of us who seek joy and peace in the simple things in life, we've been trying to get back to it ever since. No matter how haywire (to put it nicely) my day, if I can just get outside and look up through the trees, piddle among the flowers, listen to the wind rustle the bamboo, or just sit outside and hear the birds carry on about the things important to birds...the cares just seem to melt away. They get replaced with a "garden state of mind" which, for me, is respite and peace and which seems to put everything into perspective.

I do some of my best thinking while getting dirt under my fingernails and mosquito bites behind my knees. And while many of the things I hope to share are directly related to working in the garden, the posts won't always be about gardening in particular; nor certainly will they always be introspective. As much as anything they will be about maintaining that state of mind - the Pollyanna outlook, if you will - in a world which is increasingly haywire ("Where are we going and what am I doing in this handbasket!?"). Maybe sharing some happy thoughts, and some practical stuff, too, will brighten someone else's day. And maybe I'll be lucky enough to make a few friends along the way.

So what’s a blog about a Garden State of Mind got to do with New Jersey? Nothing at all.