A Garden State of Mind

Of Love and Raisins (Two Kinds)

2011-10-18T10:33:00.004-04:00

I first saw him half-way down the baking aisle. I was rushing back from checking the display case the meat department has up in the front of the store, making sure the sirloin filets which are on sale were still in good shape. He was standing by the sugar, as if he were looking for something. I was in a hurry. A big hurry.

My last customer had been a doozy, of the scene-making variety, the kind that leaves you somewhat doubtful as to the value of humanity in general. There had been a quite a run of doozies tonight. Believe me, I could write a book. And it’s Monday.

Mondays are one of our three weekly “truck nights,” when huge deliveries arrive right around 5:00 and must be stocked on shelves. My boss is in the practice of scheduling one person to do the work of two or three. The fewer people you have doing more work, selling more stuff, the better the department’s bottom line. I appreciate the significance of the math here, but customer service, which I enjoy providing, inevitably suffers; never mind morale. And God help you if the “Mystery Shopper,” enlisted by the company to spy out and report back whether you are doing your job correctly, shows up on a truck night during the rush, while you’re trying to assist umpteen shoppers, cut custom meat orders, break packages, fend questions, wait on folks wanting seafood, escort customers to items they can’t find, and straighten and stock the meat case with the new shipment, because you’ll get a failing grade and hear about it later. Long story short, I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off and not getting even close to enough done.

But he looked a bit bewildered.

“Can I help you find something, sir?” “No, thank you, I finally found it,” and he looked down at the five-pound sack of sugar in his little green hand basket. Next to the sugar were three navel oranges. It looked like he had selected nice ones. So I smiled and wished him a good evening and rushed to my next overdue chore.

I saw him again a few minutes later. He was back near the meat department now, green basket clutched in his hand. He was well into his 90’s and reminded me of my father. Helpless, old men always do. His hair was snow-white and his skin was thin, easily bruised, and marked with age. Hearing aides were in his ears. His clothes were old-fashioned and clean. He walked slowly, with great effort, staring up with uncertainty at the signs which somewhat cryptically indicate the offerings of each aisle. Clearly, he couldn’t find what he was looking for.

Relief showed on his face as I approached him for the second time and he smiled. He looked down at the folded slip of paper trembling in his palsied hand. At the top of it was a picture of Albert Einstein. The shaky handwriting was that of a very old woman; his wife, no doubt. I made out, “raisins (two kinds), cookies…” I didn't see sugar written there, but everything else on his list was near my department at the rear of the store. The items seemed a bit frivolous for a solitary old man to have to find in this big store, at this time of night. I felt sorry for him. “I can’t find the raisins,” he said. “I need cookies, too, but I think I know where those are,” and he motioned to the correct aisle.

I could see customers backing up at the seafood counter but he would never find the raisins if I didn’t take him to them. Seafood and the Mystery Shopper could wait.

He walked very slowly, which was as fast as he could. As we walked, we chatted. “Did you get sent to the store with a shopping list tonight, sir?” He smiled. “Yes.” Standing in front of the raisins I asked if he needed anything else. He said he would need condiments, too, but that he could find them. Condiments are on the aisle with the sugar. Poor thing, he’d have to walk back to where he’d already been. Each step is so precious for the aged and weak. I thought of Dad bent with age and pain, hobbling along on his walker the last day I saw him alive. “Well, you let me know if you need any more help finding anything. I’ll be right over there.”

I left him looking at the large selection of raisins and ran to serve the woman waiting at the seafood counter. I could see him from where I stood and watched him while I weighed up her shrimp. She demanded that each of the 30 or 40 shrimp she wanted be hand-selected. She pointed at individual shrimp as I dug through the 15 or so pounds in the case to please her. If I picked out the wrong one, she shook her head with disdain and motioned again, ordering me in broken English to put it down, pointing again at whichever particular one she wanted, each of which looked suspiciously like the one she had just dismissed as inferior.

He took a long time selecting his raisins. She took a long time selecting the shrimp. When I looked up again he was gone.

A bit later, there he was again, emerging from the cookie aisle, perpendicular to my meat case. Once more, he was staring down into his little basket. “How are you doing, sir, did you find what you needed?” “No,” he said, “you don’t have white raisins. She said white raisins.” I knew she meant the pale, golden raisins. I like those, too. “I’ll get them for you. You wait right here so you don’t have to walk all that way and I’ll be right back.”

Returning with her raisins, I looked down into his basket. It now contained oranges, Fig Newtons, and raisins (two kinds) – everything on his list - plus the sugar. “What about condiments, sir, didn’t you say you needed condiments?” “No, I don’t need any condiments. This is all I need.” He looked so tired. I gently teased him that if he was going to be such a good shopper he would always have to do it, but that maybe if he got a few things wrong she wouldn’t send him on his own anymore and would come with him to make sure it was done right. He got my joke and smiled. “Yes, I’ll have to think of that next time,” he said. I wished him a good evening and left him standing at the end of the cookie aisle.

Sometime later, I saw him again. He was across the store now, five or six aisles away, looking terribly disoriented. I was surprised to see him. By now, he’d been there at least 15 or 20 minutes that I was sure of. No telling how long it took him to find the oranges and sugar before I met him the first time. He was walking more slowly now, along the length of the back of the store, looking forward up each aisle.

I hurried to him. “I can’t seem to find the cash registers,” he said. How old and tired must one be before one can’t remember the cash registers run the length of the whole front of the store? How old and tired must one be before one can’t even find the front of the store? My heart broke for him. Such a trifling list was causing him such hardship.

“I’ll take you there.” “No, you don’t have to do that, just point me in the right direction.”

I walked slowly up the aisle past the frozen food with him. With great effort, he switched his green basket from one hand to the other. Five pounds of sugar, three oranges, a box of Fig Newtons, and two kinds of raisins had gotten very, very heavy. He protested as I took it from him and, very, very, slowly, we walked some more.

We were almost there now. By the grace of God I could see an empty register waiting directly in front of us at the busiest time of night. I thought about how much further it was for him just to get to his car, and then home. “Do you always do the shopping, sir, or does your wife sometimes come with you?” He hesitated. “My wife is in a care home.” I searched for words, but none came. I left him there, telling the cashier he would need help out to his car, and walked away, my eyes filling with tears.

Dear God! Suddenly the petty demands of rude customers seemed so ridiculous and small and far away. And my own problems, which have weighed heavily on my shoulders of late, faded into insignificance.

Lost and tired in a huge, busy store, a solitary old man had searched out the handful of simple little things his dying wife asked for. The sugar he would take home to the house where he lives by himself now. The cookies, oranges, and raisins (two kinds), he would take to her on his next visit. Gifts for his wife in a rest home. Gifts to make her few remaining days a tiny bit more pleasant. Gifts purchased at a great personal price. Gifts of love.

Giving Thanks

2011-06-14T09:25:00.009-04:00

I had just clocked out from work yesterday and was standing in front of the seafood counter chatting with the coworker behind it. We were talking about cooking and food in general. Looking at the newly arrived wild coho salmon (priced at $16.99/pound) I made the offhand comment, "One of these days when I have a little more money I'm going to eat a little better." "What do you mean," he asked? "You know, eat a little nicer things. Not that I'm missing any meals, mind you - I'm not! - but maybe a little less sale priced hamburger and a little more salmon and sushi." I didn't really mean anything by it. Mostly I was just thinking about how great that wild salmon would taste on the smoker. We chatted a bit longer, arguing the merits of red gravy vs. brown gravy on meatloaf (brown, of course, being the clear winner no matter what Mr. Sam thinks), and I bought half a pound of the small $4.99/pound shrimp, a bit of a splurge for me, and came home to cook supper.

Mine is a simple life, and though I'm pretty fond of it, it's probably boring and unsuccessful in the eyes of some people. Once the owner and broker of a thriving real estate company, I don't make much money anymore. Nowadays, I come home covered in pig blood and with raw meat stuck in the tread of my work shoes. It's been a long time since I've bought any clothes or gone to a movie or had dinner out. I don't drive anywhere I don't have to go because I can't afford the gas. I shop the sales and watch for coupons, and try to never pay more than $3/pound for meat, which limits me to a lot of hamburger and chicken.

Standing in the kitchen, trying to decide what to do with the shrimp, I rummaged through the fridge and took out a small package of chicken tenderloins I'd gotten on sale for $1.99/pound, and a package of $2.49/pound sale-priced hamburger. Putting on some rice to simmer, I made little meatballs while it cooked, frying them up in olive oil and garlic, and tossing in the chicken and shrimp, together with onions, peppers, 'shrooms, Roma tomatoes, zucchini, and some fresh basil and parmesan. The whole thing cost me less than what half a pound of the fancy salmon would have, and I would have leftovers for two or three days (a big plus in my book).

But that really isn't the point at all.

As I sat there stirring my supper I was suddenly so ashamed of my careless, offhand comment about eating finer foods. Before me was this delicious meal, probably better than what any of my coworkers would have that night, to say nothing of so many others in the world, and yet I had been ungrateful for all this bounty, thinking instead of what I didn't have - some high dollar salmon.

God has been so good to me. Yeah, so maybe my last pair of pants came from Wal-Mart instead of Macy's, but I see plenty of people who dress and eat very expensively, buying their whining kids $20/pound sushi while the kid complains about which one he wants; they are not, and may never be, as happy as I am. Everything I have, every blessing, every joy - and there are so, so many - comes from God. I have never lacked for anything I needed, and I have many things which are simply luxuries. If I look longingly at something I do not have, it is as if I am telling Him all He has given me is not good enough. How ungrateful of me! Instead of being grateful, I become greedy and gluttonous.

I was so truly ashamed.

All of us have so much! Even those of us who think we don't. We look at things - fancy clothes and cars, fine houses, gourmet foods, expensive purses and pedicures, iPhones and iPods...as a measure of our success, happiness, contentment, and social standing. We spoil ourselves and our children, defining - and teaching our little ones to define - who we are by what we have. Not that there's necessarily anything wrong with owning an iPhone, but we need to quit focusing on the temporal, meaningless, things in the world and start being more thankful for what we already have - both tangible and intangible.

What I wear, or drive, or eat, or live in, or how fancy my cell phone is, does not define the person I am, my level of success, or how much satisfaction and joy I have in life. Only my heart defines those things and, to God, it is all that matters.

Fortunately for me, "His mercies are new every morning." This morning, mine is a heart of great gratitude and joy for all God has done for me.

Thank you, Father.

Better Really Late Than Never

2011-05-25T21:41:00.005-04:00

I'm about a year late in writing this and I probably won't get through the whole thing in one sitting. If I'd written it in a timely manner, I might have named it "What I Did on my Spring Vacation 2010", or "How I Spent My 2009 Tax Return", or "I'm Glad I Did It Once But I'd Never Do It Again". Or maybe "Heather's Opus". Yeah, I think I like that last one. Let's go with that.

I've always wanted a pond. A pretty, tranquil pond with a few fish (preferably koi) swimming languidly about. Never came close to having one, but it was always in the back of my mind.

So let's go back in time about 365 days.

When spring begins to even hint of coming around, I go somewhat mad. I can't be trusted near a garden center with a credit card (I think I've told you that before, but I'm getting old and repeating my stories, so just be quiet and listen), and if I don't end the day with dirt under my fingernails and mosquito bites behind my knees it wasn't a good day. I can be seen unashamedly wearing my ghastly, bright yellow Black Kow T-shirt, (obtained with proofs of purchase), which loudly declares "The Mature Manure". I once saw a man in a store wearing the exact same shirt and I knew he was a kindred soul. "Proofs of purchase," I asked? "Yes!" he beamed. It's a sickness.

Anyway, Spring of 2010 rolled around. It had been a really long, crappy, freaking cold, winter (please imagine those last few words in huge, bold, capped, red letters) and I decided it was my year for a pond. Just a tiny one, you know; oh, say, 3'x3', maybe in the little corner of the flower bed by the back porch door. I'd have to relocate the hydrangea, but that wouldn't be a big deal.

So off I went to the library to get some books on the subject. I'm big on books. I get that from my dad. Whatever the project is, you start out with research - lots of it. By the time you're done researching you sound like you know what you're talking about. You know all the in's and out's; all the equipment, what to expect in general, how to prepare for it, and you could do whatever it is blindfolded. With my preparation skills it's quite possible I could have been a Boy Scout, if they hadn't had the good sense to say "No Girls Allowed".

Now, first of all, let me say I read a lot of books on the pond subject, ten or twelve altogether (plus a couple on koi)...surfed a lot of web sites...bought a few magazine from Lowe's (again, a dangerous place for me to be in Spring). Frankly, it didn't look much like rocket science. Most of the people in the photographs shown building the ponds were women. Their hair was all in place, their boots and gloves were clean, and their faces smiling with the pure pleasure and ease of it all. Now, mind you, I wasn't entirely fooled. I knew it wouldn't be quite as easy as they were making it look. But, in keeping with my favorite motto, "How hard can it be?", I plunged ahead.

Before the Pond

The first thing to do was finalize the location. The spot by the back porch door was good, but if I were going to go to all this trouble, why not make the pond just a tad larger and put it somewhere else (read: cha-ching!). Besides, the hydrangea is so happy in that spot. My yard is itty-bitty, and surrounded by huge oak trees all belonging to my neighbors, so options were limited. There was a great spot - perfect, really - behind the wisteria-draped pergola, underneath the towering, old oak at the back southwest corner. It was pretty much wasted space back there; a somewhat pie-shaped affair, and a bit of a no-man's-land that landscaping and leaf-raking forgot. Falling leaves from the towering oak would be an issue but, as my brother pointed out, that was going to be a problem anywhere in the yard. So that decided it.

Only the Beginning

Job One, Day One, was to clean out the area corner behind the pergola. I hauled out more than 15 big bags of leaves, noting that this would be the approximate amount of leaves which would fall in the pond every season. (I wasn't far wrong, by the way.) Then I dug up the walking irises and put them in a bucket, hoping they would live. I pulled up the pavers from the area where the pond itself would go. Several, which were cemented to the posts of the pergola, I had to beat to piece with a hammer to remove (nothing like having the right tool for the job). I saved the extra pavers and the fragments. The whole blocks I used to extend the patio on the right side, and the various pieces were used to shore up the waterfall area. Then I marked out a circle where the pavers had been as a guide for the pool portion of the water feature.

First Shovel Full

My initial plan for the feature was a "spring," with a small pond as the "headwater," back near the property corner. The spring would spill into a little stream, which would step and wind gently down and fall into a deeper pond, which would extend out between the columns and in front of the pergola - oh, perhaps 5' or so in diameter.

The first two days of actual digging commenced with excavating the spring pool, and then digging my little stream bed.

PVC blocking my stream

Day Two (of many, many more than I anticipated to come) wasn't easy. It wasn't long before I hit a speed bump in the form of running into buried sprinkler lines. Mulling over what to do, I finally decided I would have to dig new trenches, cut the lines, and relocate the PVC. It wouldn't be easy. In fact, it would be a real pain in the keister. But it was smack in the way of my stream bed and I knew how to cut PVC, owned a pipe cutter, and have used plumber's dope more than once. How hard could it be?

Back to digging.

Broken Shovel, Day One

By the end of Day Two, I had also broken my relatively new, supposedly indestructible, Tru-Tuff shovel - the one with the lifetime guarantee. But Tru-Tuff was no match for Heather and the oak tree's root system (of which, as it turned out, there were a total of three levels, at varying depths, and increasing diameters, below the surface of the dirt). I spent some time trying to collect on that lifetime guarantee, until I discovered the company was located in Mexico and realized they were never, ever, ever going to return an email. Good way to save money on those pesky warranty claims. So I bought a new shovel, which can be chocked up to Expense #1 Of Many On Which I Had Not Counted.

But I was not deterred.

Day Three (and I pretty much quit counting days after that) was a show-stopper all on its own.

I continued forming the spring and stream bed, carefully avoiding treading on the PVC, which I decided (based on my habit of always postponing unpleasant tasks as long as possible) I would move later. I have a pretty bad back, so I have to take things slowly. Late in the day I found a small pet collar buried eight inches or so below the surface. "Nemo," read the name tag. "Hmm. Wonder how that got here?" Dig, dig, huff, puff, dig, dig....and then....I hit a heavy-duty, black plastic trash bag with something in it. Let's see: Nemo's collar and, a foot away, a loaded trash bag. Not a good combo.

That screeching noise you just heard was digging coming to a very speedy and abrupt halt.

Nemo's final resting place (and, by the way, if the irony of that name is lost on you, you're probably thick, but drop me a line and I'll explain it to you) lay smack in the path of my stream bed. There was no way literally or figuratively to get around it. I hadn't been looking forward to the several extra days' work relocating the sprinkler line would add, but I REALLY wasn't looking forward to relocating Nemo (may he rest in peace, amen).

So I decided to scrap the whole spring/stream plan and switch it to building a berm and constructing a waterfall over Nemo instead. Yeah, I'd lost a couple days' digging, but I'd saved the time and cost involved in relocating the PVC, and Nemo could continue, undisturbed, sleeping with the fishes. (Get it? "Sleeping with the fishes"? Oh, never mind.)

There were several things I didn't consider when making this fateful decision. First, I had no clue whatsoever of the immense amount of extra work, and incredible physical toll it would have on my weak back. Nor did I even think to calculate the skyrocketing expense I was in for in switching from lowly stream to lofty waterfall. If I had, I might have changed my mind and rudely disturbed Nemo's peaceful slumber.

But I also didn't realized how much more beautiful it would all turn out to be. So, in my usual state of ignorant bliss, I plunged ahead made the right decision.

To be continued....


Pavers Out, Pond Marked

With my plan finally gelling, and my work cut out for me, I began digging in earnest. The area where the pond would go is surrounded by oak trees, azaleas, and wisteria. Just beneath the surface of the dirt, kept mostly dry from many years of pavers being in place, was a tough, tangled, fibrous, web of fine roots. It was difficult to dig through and headway was slow. Each shovel-full of dirt, from whatever direction I was digging, had to be thrown back into a pile where the falls' berm would be, covering the sprinkler lines and Nemo once and for all. Digging was hot, slow, filthy, hard, and back-breaking.

Once through the initial surface root system, the digging got a little bit easier for a while. Then, about a foot down, I hit a second system of roots; this time with fewer, but larger, roots about 1"-3" in diameter. These I hacked out with my little, old hatchet (again, right tool: right job), and continued digging.

Finally, about three feet down I hit larger roots, of which there were quite a few. These were up to 5" around, hard as steel, and I had nothing with which to remove them. My cheap, old, long unused, chainsaw quit on me within minutes of being fired up, which was just as well. It would no longer keep the chain tight and I was more than a little concerned it was going to fly off at any moment, separating my flesh from my kneecaps.

I hacked with my little hatchet, and then tried a hacksaw, but I might as well have been using a butter knife.

Then my brother came to the rescue. He loaned me his jigsaw, and I whipped them out in no time. Finally, the right tool for the job! I dug out from around the roots, cutting way back beneath the dirt, so no root would touch the pond liner when it was in place.

By this time many days had passed. In-between my real job, I was working full time on the pond, digging with every spare bit of time and energy I had.

The earth beneath the patio pavers was hard, dry and compacted, but once I passed the third level of roots the digging got easier and I was working with a vengeance, for which my back dearly paid for months to come. Several trips to the chiropractor can be added to the list of expenses on which I had not counted.

Starting to Look Like Something!

I made a trip south to a rock place down in Ocala and purchase my first of many loads of rock, and loaded them up in the back of my faithful, little Honda Element. My friend Sarah went with me, and we selected the four large, flat rocks over which the water would spill, as well as a small assortment of periphery stones.

The relocated pavers and first small load of rock.

Later, I found another rock place, Hillbilly Rock, just north of town, where the rock was much cheaper, the people far more friendly and helpful, and the selection better. By the time it was over with I was on their frequent flier program.

Since I didn't have a wheelbarrow, and didn't want to add yet another large expense to my tally, I hand-carried each rock from my driveway to the back yard. Some were too big to carry, and those I rolled, cringing as they clanked down my sidewalk, hoping they - or the walkway - didn't crack. Smaller rocks I lugged back in a bucket. The three largest rocks I paid someone to carry back for me.

Several weeks later, the berm and pond excavation were nearly completed. I had read the berm needed to settle for quite a while, and I watered it down lightly for many days to hasten the compacting.

I carefully formed the stair-step falls, and pools beneath them. The lovely sound of water is created and enhanced not just by the water itself dropping, but by the hollow behind the falls and the depth of the pool into which it falls. Each overspill of water was carefully planned and the pool beneath it dug deep to create a soothing gurgle. I viewed the falls from many angles in the yard. The the main vantage point would, of course, be poolside, but I wanted it to be aesthetically pleasing from any angle in the yard. I also turned each spillway one way or another just a bit, so that the water did not drop straight down, but rather winded down a bit, adding to the naturalized look I hoped for. The final drop into the pool was a tiny one, just a couple of inches, so that the water spills over gently, not disturbing the surface of the quiet pool.

The edge of the pool itself I dug in an inexact circle, again to make it seem less a man-made "necklace" (as the books all called it) of stones and more as if Nature herself had put it there.


Dumpster Diving

The books also suggested a cushioned layer between the pond liner and the dirt beneath it. You can buy specialized padding from pond stores, but I went dumpster diving out behind a local carpet store for scraps. I'm pretty sure the carpet salesman thought I was a complete nut case, but he humored me anyway I came home with the back of the Element full of somewhat smelly carpet scraps with which I lined the pond hip-deep pond.

By now, a month had gone by, the berm had had time to settle, and I could commence again.

Filling for the first time.

The next step was the only one I didn't do "all by myself." My neighbor, Mike, came over and helped me stretch out the liner. I had calculated the necessary size (13'x20') carefully, measuring dips and hollows, and, though there was extra to be cut away in some areas, I had just barely enough in several others.

Pond Liner in Place and Filled with Water for the First Time

It would have to be drained out again, but together Mike and I watched the pond fill, pushing, pulling and tugging the liner into place, as the weight of the water fitted it into the nooks and crannies of the pond.

I began placing rocks here and there around the feature, both to anchor the liner and let it all settle, as well as get an idea of what would go where and how much more rock I would need. It didn't take long to figure out I was going to need a whole lot more rock, a realization I continued to have anew on multiple occasions throughout the construction. But I was pleased with how it was all taking shape.


The First of MANY bags of mortar

I left the pond filled with water and the stones in place for several days so everything could settle and then I mixed my very first bag of mortar.

I mixed in cement colorants - a combination of rust and black - to naturalize and darken the color from the stark, concrete-gray, mortar. The bags weighed 80 pounds each and, like the stones, I hand carried each one from my car to the construction site. I lost track of how many I ultimately used, but I would estimate 15 - 20.

First Few Stones Set as a Base Beneath the Peripheral Flagstones

I had never worked with mortar and stones before, other than mixing up cement in which to set posts and such. So I began with a little trepidation. The mixing process was, for me, quite difficult, but by the time it was over - several weeks to come - I was slopping it on like an old pro.

I worked day, by day, usually making it through at least one bag of mortar.

I ran out of stones many times and made multiple visits to Hillbilly Rock, where they were always pleased to see me pull in. All told, the rock cost about $700. The liner was about $40.

Every stone was hand-selected. Though some were less important "filler" rocks, harmony in color, and between the types of stone, was critical to an overall natural, woodsy look. Much of the rock is Tennessee Field Stone, some is slate, among others. Many stones were selected for their exact ultimate location already in mind. It would have been cheaper to have utilized the native Florida sandstone, but I did not care for the color or texture in this application

Though far from finished, significant progress has been made.

To be continued....

What the Squirrels and the Bulldog Haven't Eaten Yet

2011-05-10T11:30:00.001-04:00

Boy, you just wait 'til I get my hands on you....!

2011-03-23T20:27:00.002-04:00

COMMON NAME: Squirrel

SCIENTIFIC NAME: Treeis Ratus

GLOBAL POPULATION: 80 bajillion

TERRITORY: My back yard and pretty much everywhere else, too.

NOTES: Don't get me wrong, I love squirrels. I used to know a guy who trapped them in his yard, stuffed them in a sack, tied the sack to his car exhaust, and then gassed them with carbon monoxide. How he justified such an atrocity, I will never be able to comprehend, but I'm pretty sure there's a special place in the next life for people who hurt little animals.

Squirrels are adorable and entertaining. They get into my bird feeder, make a huge, wasteful mess, and I don't mind. I just fill it back up, making sure there are plenty of sunflower seeds because they like those, and then watch them dangle from the branches above to get at it again. They dig up my flower beds all year, alternately hiding and retrieving acorns. They live in the roof of my back porch, raising their litters in the false ceiling (usually two per year), scampering around all hours and raising cane. Their ingress is right above my kitchen window, and I can see the tiny babies poking their heads out on their first visit to the big world. I talk to them and they look down on me with wonder. It's probably not the best of places for me to let them stay; Heaven knows what kind of mess they're making or what wiring is up there which they might be gnawing on. But it gets so cold in the winter and I just don't have the heart to block them out.

But I'll tell you this: IF I CATCH THE LITTLE SON-OF-A-GUN WHO HAS BEEN EATING MY IRIS BUDS, JUST AS THEY ARE SWELLING AND ABOUT TO BURST INTO BLOOM, I'M GOING TO BOP HIM ON THE HEAD!!!

A Morsel With Quiet

2011-03-21T17:46:00.018-04:00

PREFACE

Matcha tea in a chawan (tea bowl) with
bamboo chasen (whisk) and
bamboo chashaku (scoop).

This article was supposed to be about Japanese matcha tea. Once unheard of in America, matcha is fast becoming a cultural health fad, and with good reason. Matcha packs a host of highly beneficial antioxidants, antivirals, fiber, the bioflavonoid Catechin, as well as being rich in vitamins A, C, E, B1, B2 and niacin, and the mood enhancing amino acid Theanine. Studies indicate, among other things, matcha helps prevent strokes, certain types of cancer, blood clots, and heart disease. You can buy a matcha latte at Starbucks now. Need I say more?

Weeks before Japan’s recent sequence of disasters struck, I began researching matcha, along with the intricate and lovely Japanese Tea Ceremony, writing the blog entry in my head, which is my customary, though somewhat loose, process. But when I finally sat down to expound upon the beautiful, deceptively simple, rituals of the Tea Ceremony, and the phenomenal health benefits of matcha tea, of their own volition my fingers pecked out something else entirely. The divergence is due in part, I am sure, to the current distress in Japan, and to the very real possibility of even greater, irrevocable and irreplaceable loss.

I will leave you to psychoanalyze the rest.

Anyway, more about matcha will come later, and it is definitely worth a read.

Until then, my daily prayers are with Japan and her people.

Dewa mata …ではまた。“See you later.”

Dogwoods and Azaleas in Bloom

Dad died last fall but I find he is not gone at all, as I so feared he would be. Drab Winter has fled, chased away early by a glorious Spring. The dogwoods are blooming and bumblebees lumber through scads of fragrant azalea blossoms in my yard. The red leaves of my Japanese maples are unfolding, the hostas beneath them poking through the warm soil. Carolina wrens chatter boldly to each other in the trees and the hummingbird feeder is hung in anticipation of the return of my wee friends. And Dad is right here with me every moment, comforting me with the memories, dreams, and lessons he left me.

Like so many things in life which intrigue me, if I look far enough back in my childhood I often find the seeds were planted by my father. For years I did not realize it but mysterious Japan is one of those seeds.

The Korean War was just gearing up when Dad finished Marine Corps boot camp with flying colors at the swamp which is Parris Island. He was newly married to his first wife when the classifications clerk asked for his first three duty choices. Dad wrote, “Combat: line company; combat: tanks; combat: Motor Transport.”

He got Motor Transport alright. But instead of combat, Fate smirked as they shipped the big, tough, full-of-himself Marine off to Yokuska, Japan to drive a bus.

Tea Growing in the Shadow of Mount Fuji

But Dad loved Japan and he had a way of telling a story. “It even smells exciting,” he said. “There’s something about the paper and the buildings and the houses built with aromatic cedar, and the pomade the men all wear.” (In passing, he may also have casually mentioned something about pretty girls and bootlegging Army liquor to the locals, but I digress.)

The sight which met him that first morning in Japan, as he opened his eyes and looked out his barracks window, was “the mighty and eternal and awesome and sacred Fuji! Probably the most famous snow-capped mountain in the whole world, and here it was looking right in my window at me!” Years later, near the end of his life, Dad told me he wished he had stayed there and lived out his days in "the land from which the sun comes." I can't say I blame him.

For many years I have had my own dreams of some day climbing Fuji’s sacred summit and discovering, for what will feel like the first time, the secrets of Toyo-akitsushima - "The Island of Dragonflies." But one of the things that fascinated me about it as a little girl was Dad's story about rice candy. I was intrigued, but skeptical, that candy worth eating could be made from rice but he assured me it was. Not only that, he said, but the paper wrapper was made from rice and you could eat it, too! Never mind the cherry blossoms drifting on tranquil koi ponds and ethereal mountain ravines swathed in the ancient mists of time for which I now long - this was something monumental! He brought me some of that rice candy once, after a trip abroad. It is a fond memory of childhood; I can recall the taste of it, how the rice paper wrapping was at first crinkly and almost tasteless in my mouth, quickly melting away to nothing, leaving behind a yummy pink, chewy, fruity candy.

Botan Rice Candy

On a recent trip to my local Oriental market to buy sushi rice, konbu, and matcha, I saw rice candy again for the first time in nearly forty years. The baroquely decorated, watermelon and green, box was virtually identical to the one of my childhood, right down to a funny-looking toy dog and flower on one side, a chubby baby boy holding a toy on the other, and a child's sticker inside (though, when I was a little girl, the box contained a small toy). There in front of the candy display, the childhood memories flooded back. I bought three boxes and, sitting in the parking lot, I ate the first box at one go, thinking of Daddy, tears at once joyous and deep with unspeakable loss spilling down my face.

In Japan, a hostess prepares and serves food for her guests with great thought, care, and grace. The one who receives it does so with solemn thanksgiving, offering appreciation not only to the hostess, but to all who contributed to the making of it, from the farmer to the fisherman, with, "itadakimasu," "I humbly receive." It is believed the food is a gift, which forever becomes a part of the one who eats it. And, in a very real way, that is true. It is funny, the little things we remember; the morsels of life which become part of us, flavoring our lives and making us who we are; the tiny grains planted throughout all our days which help us grow into what we will be.

Each day, each moment…matters. Money, power, prestige – they mean far less than nothing. A budding flower, a cup of tea, a dragonfly on a blade of grass, reflections on simple beauty, tiny joys, quiet solitary moments, grateful hearts…in these are found peace and contentment. Zen monks taught this to their pupils. My father taught it to me.

For all you left me, Daddy, itadakimasu...I humbly receive.

いただきます

"Better is a dry morsel with quiet than a house full of feasting with strife." -- Proverbs 17:1

Happy Morning

2011-01-27T10:20:00.009-05:00

I awakened this morning to an uncustomary cacophony of chirping. My first thought was, "The robins are back!"

American Robins in my backyard pond

"Turdus migratorius," as they were unpoetically named by some long-dead ornithologist, pass through twice a year. Though there are always a few small bands of stragglers, they never stay more than a day or two. I am always sorry to see them heading south for winter, taking summer with them. But they spend the cold months in the Bahamas and Bermuda, among other places, so they're probably having a better winter than I here in frozen north Florida. Their all-too-brief passing in spring makes me smile. Soon the earth will reawaken and the flowers will bloom again.

It is far too late for them to be heading south and seemed a bit too early to be heading north. But sure enough, I peeked into the back yard and the ancient oak tree was alive with robins, their cheery conversation filling the crisp morning air. Thronging around my little pond they chattered happily to each other as they bathed, drank, and splashed in the icy water.

Within a few hours, as quickly as they came, they were gone. Their brief sojourn brought a happy smile to my day. And I couldn't help but wonder what robins talk about on long journeys.

I Remember Daddy

2010-12-01T19:44:00.008-05:00

He clung to life - if it can be called that - for so long. Sometimes I suspected he did it only for me. God, I hope not. How he suffered!

The last time I talked to Daddy was October 29th, 2010. We spoke briefly of my visit earlier in the day, but mostly we just talked about the puppy. He was so happy I was going to get a wee fellow to keep me company after Banger died three weeks before. He said Finn would be my companion, my friend, my protector, after he was gone. His voice was weak, and his medication made him a little goofy, but he was so excited about little Finn I couldn't help but smile. My strong, brilliant, beautiful father sounded like a little boy on Christmas Eve. He asked when I would visit again, but as I hung up the phone I knew it was the last conversation we would ever have.

Dad plummeted after that. Dear God, I prayed for the end.

I brought little Finn home on Thursday the 11th. As the tiny puppy Daddy already loved dearly lay sleeping at my feet I drank too much wine and wrote down all the good things from my young childhood about my father which sprang to my tired, aching mind. No bad memories, though there are few of those anyway, and nothing beyond twelve or thirteen years. Just memories of a little girl's daddy and what he meant all those years ago. Human words could not possibly convey what he means now; what has transpired between us, what he was, and is, and will always be to me.

Though no one ever told me the time, Dad was gathered to his people the following day - Friday, November 12th, 2010.

I REMEMBER DADDY

Holding out his hands to catch me when I jumped off the roof of the car, and not being afraid he would miss
Holding me on his lap in the black recliner chair by the window, giving me a sip of his beer, which I didn’t like
Riding me on the back of the Vespa
Explaining to me why he wet his finger and pointed it in the air: he said you could tell the strength and direction of the wind
Being big and strong and handsome
Letting me climb into bed next to him when I’d had a bad dream
Getting an incubator and putting quail eggs in it, but they never hatched
Could tie lots of knots
Taking me for a ride on the back of his motorcycle; and when a lady cut us off, yanking open her car door at the next light, yelling at her that she could have killed his little girl
Accidentally seeing him after he got out of the shower and asking, “What is that?” and receiving a matter-of-fact reply
Sitting in his new Mustang while he played “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” and “Joy to the World” on the 8-track stereo
Telling stories about growing up in Fairmont and visiting his grandparents’ farm. Fairmont sounded like Heaven
Sailing our boat in the dark storm, but I wasn’t afraid and we had cookies for supper
Never being afraid when he was there
Holding me in his lap while we were sitting on the dock
Showing me dolphin swimming alongside the boat
Taking me swimming in the ocean
Whistling to call me home from playing at friends’ houses
Teaching me to whistle loudly, like he did
Taking me to see Cole & Lydia and we went to the beach
Explaining things to me when I asked questions
Riding me on his shoulders
Getting Gene and me baby ducks and the dog ate one (Gene’s, I think)
Re-burying Mamaw’s canary after she buried it and the dog dug it up, and not telling her
Had a tattoo of a black panther and a snake
Looked like Mamaw
Wearing overalls
Didn’t like to listen to the radio
Liked Champale, but I don't think they make it anymore
Taking me out in a field to set off rockets
Thundering in the courtroom, “Your Honor, this man is a LIAR!”, and not knowing Daddy could yell like that
Taking us to feed the alligators
Didn’t like fishing, but took us once and only Gene caught a fish
Said his father never showed him much love
Liked motorcycles
Showing me the manatees in the Miami River
Had a big laugh
Making Johnny-cakes with cinnamon and sugar
Watching Star Trek with me
Was the only parent who said, “I love you”
Smelled good
Sitting at the table, once, smoking a cigarette he’d rolled (which he swore years later, when I teased him, was not Mary Jane)
Talking about interesting things like guitars and Charlie Chaplin, even though I didn’t know who that was
Looking closely at my face and saying, “She’s going to be a knockout when she’s grown!”
Taking me to the 7-11 and buying me candy necklaces and Sugar Babies and Chick-o-Sticks
Called candy "pogey bait," which I learned years later was the Marines' slang term for candy
Telling me he’d been bad and was in prison but that he was sorry and it was all going to be alright - and he was right
Baptizing me in the Gulf of Mexico, and it was cold
Putting honey on my finger so a honey bee could eat it off, telling me she wouldn’t hurt me if I just was still, and he was right
Smiling – he had beautiful teeth
Was tall
Made me hole-in-the-walls (egg fried in a hole in a piece of bread with lots of butter and jelly on the hole)
Coming out of the store to comfort me when mother was angry at me again and made me wait in the car alone
Taking me for ice cream
Being nice to people
Liking all the lights to be on; he said his father kept them off to save money even though he was rich
Loving animals
Talking about camping in the everglades when he was young and catching snakes with his buddy George Champion
Telling the story of accidentally setting his Army buddy on fire, then putting the fire out, and getting a medal for it
Getting Gene and me a scooter
Saying “My-am-uh” instead of “My-am-ee” (Miami)
Praying like he was talking to someone he loved, and Who was listening
Crying when Cole got in trouble
Driving the ice cream truck and letting me help, paying me all I could eat
Talking about his parents' black maid, Idella, whom he loved as a child, and how she didn’t like that he kept snakes in a box in the garage
Being very upset and worried for me when someone threw a firecracker in the door of the ice cream truck and scared me
Calling me “baby” and “brat” with the same amount of love
Getting me a skateboard
Not liking it when I got my first training bra and saying I didn’t need it
Finding turtle eggs on the banks of a river and telling me you could eat them, but I didn't want to
Talking about Mamaw and what a loving mother she was
Saying, “Find that rattle and make it stop!”, when we were driving in the motor home
Holding me in his lap and praying for me
Telling stories from when he was a little boy, and remembering things from his very early years
Was tenderhearted and took things to heart as child
Always had some grand project going
Was meticulous with things like vehicles and machinery
Was never afraid of anything or anyone
Giving his testimony in churches and everyone, including me, crying
Working on things
Always liking everything neat and clean and said you always had to put your tools away when you were done working
Playing piano, accordion, autoharp, harmonica, bagpipes, guitar, shakuhachi, and singing
Always bringing me a present when he came home from a trip
Putting a statue of Jesus in front of our house, arms outstretched, overlooking the water
Picking up the other phone when I was talking with a boy, and chewing him out for cussing
Salting his beer
Testing me on books I’d read to earn a dollar and being very displeased when I tried to cheat my way through the Scarlett Letter (which was very boring)
Talking on the CB radio
Preaching in Spanish while we were in Mexico
Building us a pigeon coop and getting squabs
Playing 20 Questions
Building the cabin in Alaska
Letting me hold the wheel of the airplane
Bringing home Storm
Playing the accordion when he was melancholy
Took me to get my ears pierced
Couldn’t spell worth a hoot
Had beautiful handwriting
Hardly ever got angry but, boy, when he did….
Always took his Bible with him on trips and it smelled like his aftershave
Teaching me to drive in our Volkswagen Thing
Always knowing a lot of things
Saying, “Well, the dictionary is wrong,” when it disagreed with whatever he thought
Correcting my grammar
Always being the one you went to when you really wanted something
Was never afraid to say what he thought
Taught me how to play chess
Was brilliant
Taught me how to shoot a gun
Was always the one to get me pets
Reciting bawdy limericks: “There was a young man from Boston…”
Was funny
Never compromised on right and wrong
Was never wrong, even when I’m pretty sure he might have been
Mellowed as he got older
Seemed to actually believe I really was the smartest, most sweet, and beautiful person in the world
Loved me more than anyone else ever did or ever will

I miss you, Daddy. What would I have been without you?

William Eugene "Gene" Neill

Born February 25, 1931 in Fairmont, West Virginia

Died November 12, 2010 in Mayo, Florida
Buried in Mount Zion Cemetery, Fairmont, West Virginia

Dad's Memorial - Mount Zion Cemetery - Fairmont, West Virginia

A Moment in Fall

2010-10-26T20:23:00.000-04:00

The morning sun shone through the nearly translucent leaf as the cool breeze rolled it slowly on its downward journey. Bouncing lightly as it landed, it skipped along the path like a stone on water.

How joyously beautiful are the simplest things.

How visible in all He created is the hand of God.

Wonders never cease....

2010-09-27T23:34:00.014-04:00

How old is Bambina now… nine, ten years old? I can never remember whether Wes found her his junior or sophomore year. “Bella Bamina Diablita,” we named her. Very loosely translated, “Pretty Little Devil Girl.” For such a tiny kitten, she was awfully feisty.

She loves her “brother,” Banger….rubs against him, sleeps next to him, follows him in the yard. Like any brother, he alternately tolerates and ignores her…but they’re chums, you know, pals. I frequently come home to find the two of them on the couch (where animals don’t belong), curled up next to each other.

Anyone who knows Banger, and I am sure Bambina is no exception, knows there is something wrong with him now. Her brother is sick and she may not quite know why, but she knows. He has good days and bad days anymore; sadly, more of the latter. A stroke or two will do that to even the best of old dogs.

His favorite thing in the world was always a walk… gotta mark the entire neighborhood, you know. As important as territory is, though, these days he’s not always up to claiming it. His gait is sometimes awkward and he often looks up at me, confused and unsure. But tonight, after working a twelve hour shift, and really just wanting to fall into a chair, I came home to find him looking like he was up for a stroll. So we gathered leash and bag and set out the door. Tonight was a good night for an old dog.

Bambina followed us out the door. Never venturing past her own driveway, she waits for us to come home, frequently hiding in the bushes and jumping out to scare us as we turn up our walk. But, half-way down the block, I turned and was amazed to see a silhouette slinking along behind us. Never has she followed so far. When we reached the corner I thought surely she would turn for home, but onward she came. Another half block, and she was still with us, slinking from shadow to shadow. I marveled as she turned another corner, and another, following us the duration of a 35-40 minute walk, always on the dark periphery, but always close at hand.

What, after ten years of waiting at home, while her brother and I headed out on our strolls, made her decide to tag along tonight? It was no different than any of a thousand nights. After a decade, did she suddenly become brave and curious? Or, like me, does she worry maybe her brother’s time is short and she’d like to spend as much of it with him as possible? I’m sure I have no idea.

But as we strolled along together in the darkness, the smell of night-blooming flowers in the air, and trees dripping from the recent rain…just the three of us…it was one of the happiest moments of my life. Theirs, too, I am sure.

++++++++++++++++++++

Bambina never went on another walk with us. Banger died October 9th, 2010, three weeks short of his 15th birthday. We miss you, dear old friend, but we'll see you again.

Things You Realize While You Are Stocking the Cheese

2010-05-31T11:29:00.010-04:00

I was kneeling on the hard floor, my head in the cheese case, neatly arranging the feta for the hundredth time this week, when a mother and her young son approached. Both were oblivious to my existence, which is usually the case of shoppers and the Invisible Meat & Cheese Girl.

Mom was standing in front of the sliced Sargento, trying to decide what she wanted (great prices at Publix this week, by the way). Her young progeny was talking a mile a minute about some wonderful invention he had constructed from various parts scrounged from here and there, one of which was a paperclip he had found on the ground. He looked like he was about eight, and it was apparent his soliloquy had been going on for some time; I couldn’t tell exactly what it was he had “invented,” but it was obviously monumental, for he described it with great enthusiasm.

To say Mom was listening with only half an ear would be giving her far more credit than was due. That’s not really a judgment of her, I guess; you know how moms are sometimes. And I’m sure there are moments when Junior has her undivided, if feigned, interest and mostly full attention.

Today was not that day.

I listened and watched as he tried valiantly, but unsuccessfully, to get her to hear anything he was saying…just some small acknowledgment of his accomplishment, or that he was even standing there at all. But, with efficiency that only comes with practice, she was able to ignore him entirely, not so much as even pretending interest with an occasional distracted, “Hmmm….."

Suddenly my mind leapt back through the years to another young architect of wondrous contraptions which, theoretically at least, were brilliantly innovative and could surely be patented today, affording me the lifestyle to which I would like to be accustomed, if only I’d had the wisdom and forethought to save the blueprints. Alas, I did not. After a respectable amount of time spent Scotch-taped to the refrigerator they were surreptitiously relegated to File 13. (I can’t help it; I have this thing about the fridge being cluttered.)

They were fantastically detailed drawings, though; arrows and labels and stages of operation clearly stating the nuts and bolts of whatever the thing was. Despite my silent misgivings to the contrary, my young son would describe them at great length, quite confident that each would operate flawlessly, if only he had the parts to construct them. Although I actually admired them at the time, listening fairly well most days, and attributing what I was certain was a superior intellect to his having been able to conjure them up, I couldn’t have told you what they were to save my life.

Fond memories of the past tightened my throat and, with watery eyes, I looked back at Mom and Junior, feeling sorry for them. I wished she would listen, or smile. The days flee away and they are both missing so much.

To shut him up she finally interrupted his monologue with a demand that he help her select the cheese: Did he want Gouda or Muenster? (Like an eight-year-old knows the difference, or wants anything other than American anyway.)

As I hoisted myself off the floor, an increasingly difficult undertaking, I realized I love my son too much to wish childhood on him again. But if I had it to live it over I would pay more attention.

And I would keep the blueprints.

A Tree After All

2009-12-01T12:08:00.011-05:00

When asked what's important about Christmas, or what it means to them, pretty much any well-adjusted, reasonably happy person will place "family" right at the top of their list. I am certainly one of them. Though reality rarely measures up to one's visions of grandeur, I am a believer in Norman Rockwellesque family gatherings; food, laughter, love, maybe a prank or two, and some funny-looking relatives. (OK, so maybe reality does sometimes mirror fiction.)

For many, many years Christmas has centered around my children. Life has a way of getting pretty rough, sometimes, when you're a grown-up. I wanted for them to have a happy childhood, so when they became adults and things got tough, they would have something to look back on, and from which to draw strength. So, from the time they were tiny, I endeavored to create happy memories for them; not just of Christmas, but of childhood in general. In doing so, I created beautiful memories of my own, which grow more dear with time. The holidays mean so much to me and I incorporated tradition, to the best of my meager ability, into Thanksgiving and Christmas. Decorations, lights, food, gifts, music, stories and love.

I don't think they ever realized it, but from time to time I worked side jobs in the fall to produce extra Christmas money. A couple of years I made and sold soaps and lotions. One year I wrote "Letters from Santa," which I advertised on a little web site I built. Another year I took in dictation from a doctor. It was never much, but I stacked as many gifts a paltry single income could produce under a tree we decorated together while listening to Christmas music. And throughout the festivities, presents, and stories of Santa, woven firmly and inexorably into the fabric of the holidays, was the golden chord of the birth of Christ. Gentle reminders, not just that He came, but why He came. He was born to die for them - for me, for you. Each Christmas morning, as they sat munching candy from their stockings, I read the Christmas story to them from the Bible, and we bowed our heads and thanked God for His gifts to us, and Christ for His sacrifice, before they tore Christmas paper asunder, plowing through presents in record time.

But time and years march on. They're not little anymore. They're both grown and gone. And, though I know there will be more Christmases together, for the very first time in my life, I will awaken alone on Christmas morning and I am keenly aware it will never be quite the same again. There will be no gifts or childish laughter this year. No whispers outside my door of, "Do you think she's awake yet?!" No paper-strewn floor. No big breakfast of pancakes and bacon and fresh orange juice. So, as Thanksgiving quietly came and went without the sound of their voices, and without the smell of cooking in my kitchen for the first time in more than 25 years, the approach of Christmas began to weigh very heavily upon me. Every time I thought of it, I got a lump in my throat.

I decided I would forego a tree and decorations, rationalizing the cost, which I can ill-afford, and the fact that it didn't matter much anyway because the kids weren't here and that sort of thing was all for them anyway. But the truth is, I'm a sentimental fool, and I couldn't bear the thought of decorating alone and spending Christmas without them. I just wanted it to be over with as quickly, and with as little heartbreak, as possible.

But then I began to think about what it was all really about. Yes, we think of family and traditions around the holidays and that is as is should be. But Christmas and Thanksgiving are not really about family. They can - and should - be celebrated with as much joy and and thankfulness when one is alone as they are when surrounded by goofy relatives Mr. Rockwell wouldn't dream of painting.

For thousands of years the birth of Jesus was foretold to Israel. But they did not expect Him to come as He did. They were looking for a worldly savior - a rich, strong, charismatic man who would take the throne and thrash their enemies, making them a ruling nation once again. So they missed Him. Because instead of showing up on a magnificent stallion with a sword in His hand, He arrived quietly, of lowly birth, the seemingly illegitimate son of a carpenter. He was born in a stable to a young, road-weary, home girl who could scarce understand all that surrounded her little son. Instead of royal attendants at His birth, poor shepherds came with wild stories of singing angels, followed later by exotic wise men from the East who inadvertently brought down the wrath of a murderous king. The birth of Christ was the single most important event in the history of Creation but they missed Him then, even as the world is still missing Him today.

Who am I, then, with my sad little, sniffly tale of woe about being alone on Christmas, to detract from His birth? How selfish and small of me to be anything except joyous at the remembrance of His birth and grateful for all He did for me! What a celebration - how could I dream of missing it!

Off I went to get a tree! It's a small one - all I could afford and get upright in a stand by myself. The decorations are a bit different this year. There are no candy canes for the kids to "sneak," no homemade cut-out paper ornaments, and no gifts under it. But I decorated it while listening to Christmas music and my heart was happy. Because I quit thinking about everything that isn't quite what I wish it were in my life, and started thinking about everything He was and is and always will be for me.

Happy Birthday, Lord! And Merry Christmas to you all!

Matthew 1:18 - 2:23

of False Starts and Flowery Finishes

2009-10-11T20:49:00.041-04:00

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!

2009-09-30T08:19:00.015-04:00

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!

I Remember You

2009-09-11T10:56:00.000-04:00

When our new president recently praised as "great" the religion of those who murdered you, I thought of you.

I have thought of you more this year, for some reason, than in years past. I remember you every September 11th, of course, but you mean more to me each year. I don't know why you have become more poignant in my thoughts; maybe it's the frightening state of our country; maybe it's because some folks seem to forget what really happened that day, and what it means. Or maybe it's just because, as one grows older, things of the heart come to matter more; one sees more clearly and feels more keenly.

My brothers and sisters, you are missed. I pray for your families and friends, your kids and your moms and your sweethearts. I pray for all those who loved you and for whom this day is one of great difficulty.

I remember you, I honor you; we are less without you.

How many died on 9/11/01?

2,966 victims

All but 13 people died on that day. The remaining 13 later died of their wounds. One person has died since the attacks, of lung cancer. It is suspected to have been caused by all the debris from the Twin Towers.

There were 266 people on the four planes:

American Airlines Flight 11 (crashed into the WTC): 92 (including five Muslim terrorists)
United Airlines Flight 175 (crashed into the WTC): 65 (including five Muslim terrorists)
American Airlines Flight 77 (crashed into the Pentagon): 64 (including five Muslim terrorists)
United Flight 93 (downed in Shanksville, PA): 45 (including four Muslim terrorists)

There were 2,595 people in the World Trade Center and near it, including:

343 NYFD firefighters and paramedics
23 NYPD police officers
37 Port Authority police officers
1,402 people in Tower 1
614 people in Tower 2
658 people at one company, Cantor Fitzgerald
1,762 New York residents
674 New Jersey residents
1 NYFD firefighter killed by a man jumping off the top floors of the Twin Towers

There were 125 civilians and military personnel at the Pentagon.

1,609 people lost a spouse or partner on 9/11. More than 3,051 children lost parents.

While it was mostly Americans who were killed in this horrific attack, there were also 327 foreign nationals. Here is the breakdown, according to country:

Argentina: 4
Australia: 11
Bangladesh: 6
Belarus: 1
Belgium: 1
Bermuda: 1
Brazil: 3
Canada: 27
Chile: 2
China: 4
Cote d'Ivoire: 1
Colombia: 17
Democratic Republic of the Congo: 2
Dominican Republic: 1
El Salvador: 1
Ecuador: 3
France: 1
Germany: 11
Ghana: 2
Guyana: 3
Haiti: 2
Honduras: 1
India: 1
Indonesia: 1
Ireland: 6
Israel: 5
Italy: 4
Jamaica: 16
Japan: 26
Jordan: 2
Lebanon: 3
Lithuania: 1
Malaysia: 7
Mexico: 16
Moldova: 1
Netherlands: 1
New Zealand: 2
Nigeria: 1
Panama: 2
Peru: 5
Philippines: 16
Portugal: 3
Poland: 1
Russia: 1
South Africa: 2
South Korea: 28
Spain: 1
Sweden: 1
Taiwan: 1
Ukraine: 1
Uzbekistan: 1
United Kingdom: 67
Venezuela: 1

I Remember You All

A Country Mouse in the Duckpond

2009-09-02T20:25:00.000-04:00

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...

2009-08-08T19:49:00.000-04:00

... 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!

Where the Rabbit Trails Converge

2009-08-01T21:13:00.000-04:00

In recent months I have studied, in depth, some 25 books on Japanese gardening (thank God for a fabulous library system and used books on Amazon). Though one or two left me wondering what on earth the publishers were thinking when they decided to put them in print, most have been incredibly educational, to say nothing of beautifully inspirational.

Throughout all, lovely moss-covered Japanese lanterns lit the pathways in strolling, contemplative, and tea gardens. Some were ornate; others rough-hewn, simplistic and ancient. They ranged from the graceful, long-legged yukimi-gata lantern, frequently placed in or near water, to the squat, rounded oki-gatas, and ornate tachi-gatas with lots of fancy curves and flourishes.

Numerous web sites sell everything from cheap-looking knock-offs, to magnificent reproductions; and one even features instructions on how to make Japanese lanterns yourself from concrete. I began thinking about what would look best in my little yard and what I could afford, which wasn't much. I didn't want anything too gaudy or ornate, and I kept coming back to the "planted-type" Oribe which, rather than sitting on feet, has a post which is buried in the ground.

The Oribe lantern is one of the oldest-known Japanese lanterns. It is named after its designer, Furuta Oribe, who was the most renowned sixteenth century Japanese samurai warlord and sado, or "tea master." A fascinating man far ahead of his time, Oribe was apparently ultimately forced to commit ritual suicide for a crime of treason he probably did not commit. Oribe's methods of garden design and tea ceremony were radical departures from tradition, and are still used in Japan today. He was a master of flower arranging and developed a style of pottery, known as Oribe-ware, still much sought-after and recognized for its unusual, contemporary design and copper-green glaze. He authored two books, "Oribe Densho (Book of Secrets)" and "Oribe Hyakka (One Hundred Precepts)". After the death of his master, teacher, and friend, Sen no Rikyu, from whom Oribe learned the art of the Japanese Tea Ceremony, Oribe became known as the greatest Tea Master in Japan.

Many sites selling Oribe lanterns claim there is some merit to the legend that Oribe was, at some point later in his life, visited by a Christian missionary and that he became a Christian. They assert the carving of a man at the base of the Oribe lantern is not Buddha, but rather the missionary who led Oribe to Christ; a conversion which, had it been found out, would have cost Oribe his life, and the lives of his family. The carving above the missionary closely resembles the Greek monogram for Jesus, "ihs", which, based on the Greek alphabet spelled Jesus' name Ihesus. Some say it was used as a secret sign of Christians at the time, much like the "Christian fish" was for persecuted Believers in the first few centuries after the death of Christ. For this reason, the Oribe lantern is often known as the "Christian lantern," which intrigued me.

I figured it was not likely to be much more than a sales pitch, created by purveyors of garden paraphernalia in order to lure in Christians whose superstitions made them afraid to have a likeness of Buddha in their back yard. But still, it was an interesting possibility to consider, and the Oribe remained my favorite lantern. My dad, who lived in Japan for a while, and who is very interested in my little garden projects, concurred it was the best choice.

Like Oribe, my Dad is a complex and brilliant man. Best-selling author, Marine, big-time lawyer, Seeker, thinker, linguist, Christian.....master of all he undertakes. When he was in his early 70's, he decided he wanted to learn to play the Japanese shakuhachi - a deceptively simple-looking flute made of bamboo, sometimes left in their natural state, and sometimes lacquered red or black and decorated ornately with gold and feathers. It is very likely Oribe himself played the shakuhachi; without question he heard its music throughout his life. Often made in the minor pentatonic scale, the shakuhachi was the instrument of the elite and shoguns in ancient Japan, and was used as a form of meditation by the monks of the Fuke sect, as well as doubling as a fierce weapon by both monks and samurai; the history of the shakuhachi intrigued Dad as much as the music. At the age of 72 he taught himself to read Japanese music, no small feat, and to play the haunting music of the shakuhachi, including honkyoku pieces, the most difficult of all. He both hand-made and collected a number of shakuhachis which he played faithfully until his arthritis made it impossible.

And when I commenced my lantern quest, Dad gave me his small collection to sell in order to buy my Oribe.

Warrior, scholar, gardener, writer, sculptor, Seeker, teacher, dreamer...Furuta Oribe died nearly 400 years ago. An unabashed risk-taker and trend-setter, Oribe lived during a time of immense turmoil and change in Japan. Many of the departures from tradition were of his own design and in his lifetime he saw a shift in power amidst a strange amalgamation of centuries-old civility and merciless violence. Sworn as a warlord to Shoguns Tokugawa Ieyasu and Toyotomomi Hideyoshi, during whose 30 years' in power it is believed some 700,000 Christians were killed, is it possible that, in his last years, Furuta Oribe was visited by a Christian missionary and, secretly, converted?

Is it possible that through my father - warrior, scholar, writer, sculptor, Seeker, teacher, risk-taker, dreamer, and a missionary of God's love for more than thirty years; whose shakuhachis paid for my Oribe lantern; God has brought the story full-circle...and that four centuries of seemingly unrelated rabbit trails do, indeed, converge in my front yard? I don't know. What I do know is...

With God, all things are possible.

Taking Care of Baby

2009-07-27T08:11:00.000-04:00

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"

2009-07-10T09:36:00.001-04:00

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!?

A Minute History

2009-07-08T07:16:00.001-04:00

While the ancient Zen Masters might justifiably consider my utilization of a leaf-blower in the garden crass sacrilege, today's Japanese gardening by most Westerners is a garden of compromise. I claim to be neither authority nor purist - I have don't have the time, dedication, patience, or funds to be that high and mighty - but the history of Japanese and Zen gardens is a fascinating one, stone-stepping back thousands of years. No gardens on earth are more beautiful than the Japanese. With a deceptive effortlessness, they entwine nature and human soul, creating anew Eden on earth with water, rock and tree.

It is impossible to fully appreciate them without at least a smattering of knowledge of their history and a Japanese garden is not achieved on one's own by simply planting patches of bamboo and placing Asian-seeming garden paraphernalia here and there. Never has there existed a civilization which has attributed such import to nature as has Japan through the millennia. The ancient Japanese believed, through their Shinto faith, that everything in nature - man, beast, plants, water, and stones - is sacred and permeated with the force of Creation; coexisting, mutually reliant, and inseparable. Spirits, both good and evil, they believed, inhabited venerable rocks and trees, which are even now held sacrosanct; some, it is written, could speak. Centuries-old gardens still exist in Japan today and are as much a part of the Shinto faith as their prayers.

Now, I’m no Buddhist, nor will I ever hold sacred all the precepts of Shinto; my God isn’t carved of rock – He made the stones and breathed life into all that exists. But many of the teachings of Buddha and Shinto are complementary to those of Christ and the manner in which a true Japanese garden touches the human soul in a spiritual way is undeniable.

Japan juts from a series of volcanic mountains, verdant and lush, rising craggily from the sea. Remains of humans - pre-agricultural nomads who lived in thatched huts and whose breadth of range was called niwa - have been found from the Jomon period, as old as 10,000 BC. The 600 years before and after Christ were Japan's Yayoi period; its inhabitants began to develop from prehistoric hunter-gatherers to farmers and cultivators, developing customs and social systems the influences of which are still felt today.

Like Zen Buddhism, calligraphy, philosophy and bonsai, the Japanese learned gardening from their Chinese neighbors to the west. During the sixth century the Japanese ventured across the sea to study the culture which, at the time, was far more advanced than their own, bringing home the concepts of gardening and, in their own inimitable way, making it forever their own. The similarities between the two art forms are striking, with the Chinese seeming somewhat less precise, more heavily planted, and more ornate - garish, even, by Western standards - than their Japanese counterpart. Though lovely in their own way, the same tranquility does not exist in a Chinese garden. Study only a few representations of each and one can soon distinguish both the undeniable link, and distinct dissimilarities, between the two.

Though the earliest gardens found in Japan closely resembled their Chinese origins, over time they evolved, becoming singularly more Japanese in style and feel. The influence of Japan's wabi-sabi - an aesthetic of simple, natural, elegance and tranquility - replaced the exotic aura of Chinese interpretation. The gardens were modeled after the Japanese landscape itself; human hands recreating the mountains, lakes, streams, waterfalls and forests of Japan, containing and controlling their glory on a micro scale.

"Micromountains" and "microlakes," dating back to the 7th century AD, have been found and

these gardens were closely modeled after those in China. As the centuries passed Zen Buddhist themes were introduced but the soul of the Japanese garden remained the Shinto faith. For nearly three centuries, the elite and noble of Japan built for their pleasure enormous gardens, acres in depth and breadth; mini-worlds of lakes and mountains and forests meticulously manicured. By the 15th and 16th centuries the size of the gardens had diminished and in many simplistic, contemplative Buddhist themes of raked rock and stone replaced ornate waterfalls and lakes as introspective Zen representations of Nature's grandeur.

Centuries have disappeared like the morning mist, yet Japanese gardens remain. Unspoiled, they are Man's monument to Nature's infinite beauty, and Nature's gift of peace to the human soul.

I, in my own puny, insignificant way hope to embody both.

Recommended reading:
A Japanese Touch for Your Garden, Kiyoshi SeikeJapanese Garden Design, Marc KeaneJapanese Gardens of the Modern Era, Haruzo OhashiInfinite Spaces - the Art and Wisdom of the Japanese Garden, Julie Moir MesservyCreating a Japanese Garden, Peter Chan

Does this mean I'm not a purist?

2009-07-07T13:50:00.000-04:00

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...

2009-06-28T12:29:00.000-04:00

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...

2009-06-24T23:36:00.001-04:00

...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.

2009-06-16T16:57:00.000-04:00

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....

2009-06-15T14:09:00.001-04:00

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.

A Garden State of Mind

Of Love and Raisins (Two Kinds)

Giving Thanks

Better Really Late Than Never

What the Squirrels and the Bulldog Haven't Eaten Yet

Boy, you just wait 'til I get my hands on you....!

A Morsel With Quiet

Happy Morning

I Remember Daddy

A Moment in Fall

The morning sun shone through the nearly translucent leaf as the cool breeze rolled it slowly on its downward journey. Bouncing lightly as it landed, it skipped along the path like a stone on water.How joyously beautiful are the simplest things.How visible in all He created is the hand of God.

Wonders never cease....

Things You Realize While You Are Stocking the Cheese

A Tree After All

of False Starts and Flowery Finishes

Hey, come back here!

I Remember You

A Country Mouse in the Duckpond

War is Hell...

Where the Rabbit Trails Converge

Taking Care of Baby

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

A Minute History

Does this mean I'm not a purist?

Two steps forward and five steps back...

virtually nothing to do with gardening...

In the beginning....

The morning sun shone through the nearly translucent leaf as the cool breeze rolled it slowly on its downward journey. Bouncing lightly as it landed, it skipped along the path like a stone on water.

How joyously beautiful are the simplest things.

How visible in all He created is the hand of God.