I am sitting here at my computer, and I should really be outside. I will write until my coffee maker beeps at me, telling me my decaf is done, and then I will sit in my chair and watch the changing of the light. I will find time. I will live in found time.
It is easy to call it lost time, this summer that should have been something else. In October of last year, we remembered how easy it was on Chlomid to conceive Gabriel, the first cycle. And we did not imagine that it would be hard. So hard, this time. And that cycle was a bust, and we waited on the next, which was also a bust, and more busts and more back to back to back drugs and pokes and prods, and living in increments and finally the last 2, breaking my heart and ending in such early miscarriages I was left with a used pregnancy test that literally showed half a plus sign. Out of breath, out of heart, out of will, out of time.
And last fall, in late September, as I put my garden to bed, savored my sweet peas that are so wonderful in their new garden bed, I grieved a bit, thinking that I would not be able to garden this summer. Thinking that in my 5th year, when things were getting easy, I would not have my garden. And the grief was not just for my garden, but so for me as well. That unlike other DBM's, I will get sick again, this could happen again, and bed rest is a forgone conclusion. I was, to be quite honest, pouting about my hard life, just a bit. I pouted a bit, wondering if I would be on bed rest, holding on to a baby at the hospital, or grieving another child not with us.
I decided to play. I decided:
I was going to make the best of this summer. I was, as much as possible not going to mourn what I wasn't doing, being: I was going to celebrate what I can do. I was going to sit in my backyard, drink pomtini's and weed. I was going to stain my deck and rip out my front veranda, and repave my front walk. I was going to stand on my front porch and watch the fireworks from the Ex, every night, and I was going to sit in my back yard and listen to the merlin chatter at me. I was going to dead head, and wander around with a cup of coffee, and see what grew during the day. I was going to tell the Madonna lily to pick up it's socks, and be impressed by the lilies.
That was what I was going to do.
And the setting sun outside my kitchen window, as I write this, tells me that summer is drawing to a close. Not completely, we have at least another month, more likely 6 weeks, but the bloom is quite literally off the rose.
I still don't know what we will do. I have another 8 months until I can see the next specialist. But . . .
My coffee maker has beeped, and I am going to get my book, and I am going outside, and the book will sit on my lap, the knitting on the side table, and I shall simply stare, not idle, merely finding time.
Showing posts with label Gardening. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gardening. Show all posts
The Yellow House in Calder
I think one of the best things about getting to know people is that you learn to know not just them, but their families. Their stories, who they are, what they are a part of, become part of your life.
I knew a bit about Brown Owl's dad, and I knew a lot about his garden. I have always thought that our gardens are our gifts to the world, and never more so than Wednesday night, as I walked through it. I have a pretty nice garden.
And perhaps, perhaps the ultimate in honour. To bring things home to my garden, to carry forward more memories. To write, on the back of plant markers, "Al's garden, 2009".How To Make Spaghetti Sauce
For Jen.
This recipe seems to be rather time intensive. You may be able to further refine it, and make it a bit more simple.
*********
I have to confess, I don't really have a recipe, but here goes.
Order Roma tomato seeds from Vesseys in December. Also order beefsteak tomatoes. (You might as well order about another $200 in plants and seeds while you are at it) Start tomato seeds indoors in February. Water, thin, fertilize. Bring them outdoors in mid-May. Plant them in early June. Water, fertilize. Develop welts when you weed around them, because you are, in fact, allergic to tomatoes. Decide in August that the best of the summer is over, and prune ruthlessly. Laugh at Franken-tomatoes.
Give beefsteak tomatoes away to co-workers as your free-with-zucchini-gift because Mr. Spit is out of town. Take ripe Roma tomatoes from the garden. Throw them whole in the freezer until they are all ripe. Finally, in late September, when you have pushed it absolutely as far as you can, tear home from work, carefully picking all remaining tomatoes into boxes. Wipe carefully. (Bonus points if you are doing this wearing a suit, in a snowstorm.) Tomatoes take over kitchen. As they ripen, throw them into the freezer with their vine ripened buddies. Sometime in November, when Mr. Spit is shrieking about having no room in the freezer for dog food, plan to make spaghetti sauce.
Haul everything out. Grab single big stock pot. Debate about grabbing second stock pot, decide not to.
Fill pot with water, set to boil. When water is boiling, throw tomatoes in for about a minute. Peel off skins. Finish task, swear and itch madly, remember that you are allergic to raw tomatoes, go upstairs, find box of Benedryl that expired 5 years ago, put box back into cupboard for discovery next year, and run out to store, to buy Benadryl.
While at grocery store, also buy mushrooms, celery, gasp at price of bell peppers, buy orange and yellow anyway, carefully forgetting to buy Italian sausage or ground beef: your choice. Buy iced tea, take Benedryl in the middle of store, and stare in amazement at the welts on your arms.
Go home. Throw sodden mass of semi-thawed tomatoes into stock pot. Go and get second pot at this point, just because it is really obvious that you did, in fact, need it. Put enough water in to cover the tomatoes in both pots. Walk away for several hours.
Find wooden spoons by allowing the tomatoes to boil over at this point, and have your burner short out. Drive to the appliance repair shop, purchase a new burner and drive all the way back home to install it. The stove will still not work, and you will be asking for the nice repair person to attend your house. Pull stove out from wall, locating all wooden spoons that have fallen behind stove. Also, enough fur to make a good sized schnauzer. Get stove fixed.
Resume making sauce. After the tomatoes have boiled down into a thick mass, run them through the tomato mill. Marvel that you used to push them through a wire sieve, and that your arm would feel like it is going to fall off. Your arm still feels like it is going to fall off, but at least, you will console yourself, this is technology, and must be better. Return remains - sans seeds and other bits- to the stock pot. You may wish to feed the English mastiff that is trying her level best to trip you, the pulp from the tomatoes.
Wash out second pot, return to basement for next year. Better yet, leave it at the top of the stairs so that you can trip over it while bringing down a load of laundry.
Into remaining pot of tomatoes, throw in several tablespoons of minced garlic from Costco, diced celery, ground zucchini (what, I have to use it up somehow!), a cup of olive oil, diced onion, salt, cup of brown sugar, oregano, cinnamon, rosemary, thyme, sage, Worcestershire sauce. Boil for another hour or two. Make sure the pot splatters a lot, so that you are still wiping up spaghetti sauce on Christmas eve.
When the spaghetti sauce is starting to look quite thick, get ground beef or Italian sauce that you have forgotten to purchase out of the fridge. Swear. Drive back to grocery store.
Brown sausage, chop peppers, mushrooms. Throw the lot into the pot. Smile at your husband as he indicates that he is looking forward to spaghetti. Cook longer.
Parcel out into Ziploc bags, make labels. Freeze flat on cooky sheet.
Go to serve remaining sauce over spaghetti for dinner, realize that you don't have any spaghetti, decide that neither you, nor Safeway will be safe from a breakdown in the middle of the pasta aisle, open up several boxes of Kraft Dinner, placing cheese powder packages in cupboard next to those from the last several years. Boil macaroni. Serve sauce.
This recipe seems to be rather time intensive. You may be able to further refine it, and make it a bit more simple.
*********
I have to confess, I don't really have a recipe, but here goes.
Order Roma tomato seeds from Vesseys in December. Also order beefsteak tomatoes. (You might as well order about another $200 in plants and seeds while you are at it) Start tomato seeds indoors in February. Water, thin, fertilize. Bring them outdoors in mid-May. Plant them in early June. Water, fertilize. Develop welts when you weed around them, because you are, in fact, allergic to tomatoes. Decide in August that the best of the summer is over, and prune ruthlessly. Laugh at Franken-tomatoes.
Give beefsteak tomatoes away to co-workers as your free-with-zucchini-gift because Mr. Spit is out of town. Take ripe Roma tomatoes from the garden. Throw them whole in the freezer until they are all ripe. Finally, in late September, when you have pushed it absolutely as far as you can, tear home from work, carefully picking all remaining tomatoes into boxes. Wipe carefully. (Bonus points if you are doing this wearing a suit, in a snowstorm.) Tomatoes take over kitchen. As they ripen, throw them into the freezer with their vine ripened buddies. Sometime in November, when Mr. Spit is shrieking about having no room in the freezer for dog food, plan to make spaghetti sauce.
Haul everything out. Grab single big stock pot. Debate about grabbing second stock pot, decide not to.
Fill pot with water, set to boil. When water is boiling, throw tomatoes in for about a minute. Peel off skins. Finish task, swear and itch madly, remember that you are allergic to raw tomatoes, go upstairs, find box of Benedryl that expired 5 years ago, put box back into cupboard for discovery next year, and run out to store, to buy Benadryl.
While at grocery store, also buy mushrooms, celery, gasp at price of bell peppers, buy orange and yellow anyway, carefully forgetting to buy Italian sausage or ground beef: your choice. Buy iced tea, take Benedryl in the middle of store, and stare in amazement at the welts on your arms.
Go home. Throw sodden mass of semi-thawed tomatoes into stock pot. Go and get second pot at this point, just because it is really obvious that you did, in fact, need it. Put enough water in to cover the tomatoes in both pots. Walk away for several hours.
Find wooden spoons by allowing the tomatoes to boil over at this point, and have your burner short out. Drive to the appliance repair shop, purchase a new burner and drive all the way back home to install it. The stove will still not work, and you will be asking for the nice repair person to attend your house. Pull stove out from wall, locating all wooden spoons that have fallen behind stove. Also, enough fur to make a good sized schnauzer. Get stove fixed.
Resume making sauce. After the tomatoes have boiled down into a thick mass, run them through the tomato mill. Marvel that you used to push them through a wire sieve, and that your arm would feel like it is going to fall off. Your arm still feels like it is going to fall off, but at least, you will console yourself, this is technology, and must be better. Return remains - sans seeds and other bits- to the stock pot. You may wish to feed the English mastiff that is trying her level best to trip you, the pulp from the tomatoes.
Wash out second pot, return to basement for next year. Better yet, leave it at the top of the stairs so that you can trip over it while bringing down a load of laundry.
Into remaining pot of tomatoes, throw in several tablespoons of minced garlic from Costco, diced celery, ground zucchini (what, I have to use it up somehow!), a cup of olive oil, diced onion, salt, cup of brown sugar, oregano, cinnamon, rosemary, thyme, sage, Worcestershire sauce. Boil for another hour or two. Make sure the pot splatters a lot, so that you are still wiping up spaghetti sauce on Christmas eve.
When the spaghetti sauce is starting to look quite thick, get ground beef or Italian sauce that you have forgotten to purchase out of the fridge. Swear. Drive back to grocery store.
Brown sausage, chop peppers, mushrooms. Throw the lot into the pot. Smile at your husband as he indicates that he is looking forward to spaghetti. Cook longer.
Parcel out into Ziploc bags, make labels. Freeze flat on cooky sheet.
Go to serve remaining sauce over spaghetti for dinner, realize that you don't have any spaghetti, decide that neither you, nor Safeway will be safe from a breakdown in the middle of the pasta aisle, open up several boxes of Kraft Dinner, placing cheese powder packages in cupboard next to those from the last several years. Boil macaroni. Serve sauce.
Grass Cycling Through My Head
Mr. Spit and I are on the hunt for a lawn mower. The old one died last fall - after admission to the Lawn Mower Hospital, where we cordially but firmly signed a DNR - and then managed to not think about grass cutting all winter; with the arrival of spring, we are looking with trepidation, the grass it is a-growin'.
We look at the price tag and think manual reel mower, and then we look at the work (our backyard is quite small, but we also do the fronts' of the houses, and down the side of the neighbour's property) and we think gas? electric? battery? $500?!?! We look dismissively at the riding mowers, and then I am seduced by the lime green Gardena lawn mower, but am afraid to confess to Mr. Spit who understands about such things as small engines and corrosion and blade deck depth that well! hello! it's lime green! With snappy orange accents! Also, made by the same people who made my hose sprayer and water wand and sprinkler, and I like those well enough. And at this point, $500 is looking like a price I am willing to pay, just to make the whole problem go away. Look at her running toward the checkout with a box in the cart, waving her Visa card, shouting sold. (And now is probably a good time to point out, if you are buying something worth $500 the box ought to be a whole lot bigger. A Whole Lot!)
I spout aphorisms like "It is only the rich who can afford to buy cheap things", and then I say, '"well, a penny saved is a penny earned". And frankly, my eyes have long since glazed over. This is what being a homeowner means? I must converse intelligently about lawn mowers?
Then the whole discussion starts over again. It is not a particularly productive discussion, and this discussion, immediately necessary though it be, is not helped by the fact that lawn mowers are located precariously close to the bedding plants and seeds, leaving me easily distracted.
"But that one has a 4 year warranty. . . Oh, look, cup and saucer vine. Wow, I've never seen gladioli in that colour before. . ."
And then Mr. Spit ( lamentably understandably) gets a touch cross with me, and he draws my attention back to the lawn mowers, and I am then distracted by deck furniture, BBQ's, garden accessories, and the final stopping point, pool accessories. (Chez Spit is, sadly, lacking in the swimming pool department, and there is, I confess, quite simply no sane reason for me to be interested in pool chemicals)
But here I am, with visions of a lime green lawn mower dancing in my head, wishing for a 50% off sale.
We look at the price tag and think manual reel mower, and then we look at the work (our backyard is quite small, but we also do the fronts' of the houses, and down the side of the neighbour's property) and we think gas? electric? battery? $500?!?! We look dismissively at the riding mowers, and then I am seduced by the lime green Gardena lawn mower, but am afraid to confess to Mr. Spit who understands about such things as small engines and corrosion and blade deck depth that well! hello! it's lime green! With snappy orange accents! Also, made by the same people who made my hose sprayer and water wand and sprinkler, and I like those well enough. And at this point, $500 is looking like a price I am willing to pay, just to make the whole problem go away. Look at her running toward the checkout with a box in the cart, waving her Visa card, shouting sold. (And now is probably a good time to point out, if you are buying something worth $500 the box ought to be a whole lot bigger. A Whole Lot!)
I spout aphorisms like "It is only the rich who can afford to buy cheap things", and then I say, '"well, a penny saved is a penny earned". And frankly, my eyes have long since glazed over. This is what being a homeowner means? I must converse intelligently about lawn mowers?
Then the whole discussion starts over again. It is not a particularly productive discussion, and this discussion, immediately necessary though it be, is not helped by the fact that lawn mowers are located precariously close to the bedding plants and seeds, leaving me easily distracted.
"But that one has a 4 year warranty. . . Oh, look, cup and saucer vine. Wow, I've never seen gladioli in that colour before. . ."
And then Mr. Spit (
But here I am, with visions of a lime green lawn mower dancing in my head, wishing for a 50% off sale.
Thyme
I began the process of putting the garden to bed yesterday.
The process of cutting down perennials, and uprooting annuals. Of planting the bulbs to bloom in spring, and putting away the garden decorations. The process of ending this cycle of the garden's life. Stopping and considering where things are, and how they have fared, and might that bleeding heart look better over there, and might I move those hosta's forward, and what if I move the tiger lily that is marginal in this growth zone, but has been blooming beautifully these last five years, might then it die?
Some years ago, I was volunteering in palliative care. I sat with a particular woman, who proudly displayed pictures of her gardens, where most displayed pictures of their families. And we talked about gardens. About plants and tips and the philosophy of a garden. The last night I saw her, she told me about the garden she planned for next year - that she had planted entire beds of perennials after her diagnosis. She worked like a woman possessed at planning and planting and cultivating. She did not live to see the fruit of the vine, the work of her hands. She did not live to see green poking out of the ground in spring time, and she did not live to see the inventory all gardeners do, the survey to see what has made it through the long and cold and dark winter, and will show up for spring. She did not live to see the lush flowers of summer, she did not live to smell the last gasp of the sweet peas in late fall. She did not live in her body, but her garden, is possibly just large enough to encompass her spirit.
I did not understand what she was doing then. I merely stayed silent, asking questions about what she planted. I did not understand what she was trying to accomplish. I did not understand the space she was living in.
The smell of thyme and basil are heavy on my hands. Dirt on my knees, swatting away the yellow-jackets, and laughing at the dog who is trying to catch fall-lazy flies and still not succeeding. I am mid-way through my work, and the warmth of the day is lying to me, telling me that I have lots of time before the snow, although experience tells me that I may only have a week. I am looking at what is left to be done, trying to decide if I should work by task, moving everything that needs to be moved, planting what needs to be planted, or if I should concentrate on beds, doing all that is needed in each bed. I am counting the work against the time, and I am coming up short. And I am remembering my laughter as I planted those thyme seeds, some 4 years ago. In my need for ritual, to honour the special moments in life, I decided to plant thyme in the garden first. The statement amused me. Tickling my need for irony and relevance.
But perhaps, as I sit, for a few moments, trying to plan, knowing that I will not be in my garden next year, I will be trying to grow a baby, perhaps I am understanding the lessons of the gardener. We give our gardens as gifts to the world, a place to grow wise and feel ease, but we do not live in them as they are, we create them for our memories, a place to retreat to on winter days, and a place to dream about. Gardens, for gardeners at least, live in the province of yesterday - the plants we remember, that did not make the winter, the blooms that are larger and sweeter in our memory. And we live in the future, as we plan. Our plans are never done, indeed, most never come to be. Our gardens outlive us, become larger than we are. They become more important, more organic than we could ever be.
You see, a gardener lives in the past and in the future, but not really in the present.
The process of cutting down perennials, and uprooting annuals. Of planting the bulbs to bloom in spring, and putting away the garden decorations. The process of ending this cycle of the garden's life. Stopping and considering where things are, and how they have fared, and might that bleeding heart look better over there, and might I move those hosta's forward, and what if I move the tiger lily that is marginal in this growth zone, but has been blooming beautifully these last five years, might then it die?
Some years ago, I was volunteering in palliative care. I sat with a particular woman, who proudly displayed pictures of her gardens, where most displayed pictures of their families. And we talked about gardens. About plants and tips and the philosophy of a garden. The last night I saw her, she told me about the garden she planned for next year - that she had planted entire beds of perennials after her diagnosis. She worked like a woman possessed at planning and planting and cultivating. She did not live to see the fruit of the vine, the work of her hands. She did not live to see green poking out of the ground in spring time, and she did not live to see the inventory all gardeners do, the survey to see what has made it through the long and cold and dark winter, and will show up for spring. She did not live to see the lush flowers of summer, she did not live to smell the last gasp of the sweet peas in late fall. She did not live in her body, but her garden, is possibly just large enough to encompass her spirit.
I did not understand what she was doing then. I merely stayed silent, asking questions about what she planted. I did not understand what she was trying to accomplish. I did not understand the space she was living in.
The smell of thyme and basil are heavy on my hands. Dirt on my knees, swatting away the yellow-jackets, and laughing at the dog who is trying to catch fall-lazy flies and still not succeeding. I am mid-way through my work, and the warmth of the day is lying to me, telling me that I have lots of time before the snow, although experience tells me that I may only have a week. I am looking at what is left to be done, trying to decide if I should work by task, moving everything that needs to be moved, planting what needs to be planted, or if I should concentrate on beds, doing all that is needed in each bed. I am counting the work against the time, and I am coming up short. And I am remembering my laughter as I planted those thyme seeds, some 4 years ago. In my need for ritual, to honour the special moments in life, I decided to plant thyme in the garden first. The statement amused me. Tickling my need for irony and relevance.
But perhaps, as I sit, for a few moments, trying to plan, knowing that I will not be in my garden next year, I will be trying to grow a baby, perhaps I am understanding the lessons of the gardener. We give our gardens as gifts to the world, a place to grow wise and feel ease, but we do not live in them as they are, we create them for our memories, a place to retreat to on winter days, and a place to dream about. Gardens, for gardeners at least, live in the province of yesterday - the plants we remember, that did not make the winter, the blooms that are larger and sweeter in our memory. And we live in the future, as we plan. Our plans are never done, indeed, most never come to be. Our gardens outlive us, become larger than we are. They become more important, more organic than we could ever be.
You see, a gardener lives in the past and in the future, but not really in the present.
They aRe ComMING to Get Me
Pls send help - the zucchini are taking over.
Ahh, finally - something that is not growing out of control, Christie's rose, in Gabriel's garden. It's a foxi pavement rose. It's hot pink. Christie likes pink.
They are leaving the garden, and they don't care that they are growing in the rocks.
They are taking over. Completely. They don't care what they crowd out. And I am running out of neighbour front porches to hide the zucchini on. Why just this evening my amazing neighbour went running past with her dog. She cringed when I said hello. Surely they couldn't have told her already about the spate of zucchini-ings lately. Surely not.
See, it is even fraternizing with the carrots. It's already ditched the lettuce. And in a Christian home. Call the preacher. Call the weed eater. Call someone!
Ahh, finally - something that is not growing out of control, Christie's rose, in Gabriel's garden. It's a foxi pavement rose. It's hot pink. Christie likes pink.
I'd rather be gardening
Really. Or knitting, or sitting on my front porch reading. Or sleeping in. But, we had our holiday on Tuesday. . . .
I'm trying not to think enviously of American holidays that fall on a Friday, and not a Tuesday, and just disrupt your week. Which is annoying, and makes me slightly disgruntled, in a Canadian sort of way.
Enough whinging about the holiday. If you want to whinge, go here.
For today, pictures of the garden I'd rather be in. The Garden Diva will be around in a few days. Hopefully she'll leave the bugs in the garden.
This is the first garden I put in, 4 years ago. It used to be a dog run. It was covered in inches of dog, ahem, leavings.
Yes, it's a laundry sink. And next year I'm going to get an old toilet, and put flowers in that. (I'm thinking bright pink trailing petunia's for the tank, and some sort of green frothy thing for the bowl. A staghorn fern maybe). Anyway, I'm going to put a sign above it that says "Mrs. Spit's second bathroom!" Or maybe "the ensuite life"
Oh great, we have critters in the garden. (Well, not really. Because the dogs aren't allowed in the gardens. Isn't. that. right. dogs?) This is Maggie.
The vegetable garden. Yes, I grow a lot of tomato's (on the spirals). About 15 in fact. Which is pretty astounding, given that I am allergic to them. I think I'll make salsa from them, for Christmas gifts. I have been dreaming about the salsa from El Mariachi in San Clemente, CA. For months. Please, would someone go there, and get me some, send it Fed Ex? Please? Or else, promise the chef whatever you have to, and get me the recipe. Please?
The scene from my front porch. Why yes, there are landscape lights missing tops. Gee Delta, would you like to tell Mummy's readers why? Thunderfoot confuses the lights with footballs. It's really very trying.
More front yard photo's. With neighbour cars. No drug dealers or graffiti, that's promising.
Oh, look. Morevermin, err, rotten squash plant eating mastiffs, err dogs. Not that I'm bitter about the summer squash plant she devoured on Tuesday. Leaves, fruit, roots. Right out of the middle of the garden. Nope, not me. Because we wouldn't have been having grilled summer squash in a few weeks, which is my favourite summer vegetable. Nope, I'm not bitter.
This is the bed we put in last year, it's in full sun. Which gives me all sorts of options for plants. Well, as many as you can have in Zone 3, up here in the arctic tundra.
Thanks for stopping by. Pull a few weeds on your way out, would you?
I'm trying not to think enviously of American holidays that fall on a Friday, and not a Tuesday, and just disrupt your week. Which is annoying, and makes me slightly disgruntled, in a Canadian sort of way.
Enough whinging about the holiday. If you want to whinge, go here.
For today, pictures of the garden I'd rather be in. The Garden Diva will be around in a few days. Hopefully she'll leave the bugs in the garden.
This is the first garden I put in, 4 years ago. It used to be a dog run. It was covered in inches of dog, ahem, leavings.
Yes, it's a laundry sink. And next year I'm going to get an old toilet, and put flowers in that. (I'm thinking bright pink trailing petunia's for the tank, and some sort of green frothy thing for the bowl. A staghorn fern maybe). Anyway, I'm going to put a sign above it that says "Mrs. Spit's second bathroom!" Or maybe "the ensuite life"
Oh great, we have critters in the garden. (Well, not really. Because the dogs aren't allowed in the gardens. Isn't. that. right. dogs?) This is Maggie.
The vegetable garden. Yes, I grow a lot of tomato's (on the spirals). About 15 in fact. Which is pretty astounding, given that I am allergic to them. I think I'll make salsa from them, for Christmas gifts. I have been dreaming about the salsa from El Mariachi in San Clemente, CA. For months. Please, would someone go there, and get me some, send it Fed Ex? Please? Or else, promise the chef whatever you have to, and get me the recipe. Please?
The scene from my front porch. Why yes, there are landscape lights missing tops. Gee Delta, would you like to tell Mummy's readers why? Thunderfoot confuses the lights with footballs. It's really very trying.
More front yard photo's. With neighbour cars. No drug dealers or graffiti, that's promising.
Oh, look. More
This is the bed we put in last year, it's in full sun. Which gives me all sorts of options for plants. Well, as many as you can have in Zone 3, up here in the arctic tundra.
Thanks for stopping by. Pull a few weeds on your way out, would you?
The Garden Diva in June
I'm sorry, I'm very tired, so I'm letting her take over. (The VBM and the OB's office warned me this might happen.)
Have a great day, see you back on Wednesday, hopefully with a finished baby sweater, for, you know, the baby that is already here.
The Garden Diva’s editor insists that she finish this column - in spite of the myriad of things TGD still needs to plant. In the midst of work that is TGD’s true calling, she is to sit and write about caring for your lawn! Bah, Dear Reader, Bah!
TGD’s solution is really quite simple – get rid of your lawn already! Really Dear Reader, don’t look so shocked. Lawns are expensive to maintain, they are ecological disasters, they are an enormous amount of work, and many grasses don’t grow all that well here. It’s the green, grass of Kentucky. Does it look like Kentucky around here?
About that environmental cost. Fertilizer contains phosphorous. Did you know, Dear Reader that the province of Manitoba has limited the amount of phosphorous in a fertilizer to 1 percent? When a gardener over fertilizes their yard, that extra phosphorus winds up in sloughs and ponds, where it turns into an algal bloom, and chokes out the wee, ickle fishies. Pesticides, dear reader, kill good bugs, including the wee tiny earth worms that are aerating your soil for you. 60-90 % of earth worms will die after an application of pesticides.
And the cost? Dear Reader, Americans spent $30 Million on lawn maintenance in 2002? Did you know that your old 4HP lawnmower creates as much smog producing particles in hour of use, as does driving your car 200 Miles (American Statistics, Dear Reader). And then Dear Reader, there are those of you that throw out your lawn clippings – 30 percent of landfill bound waste is yard waste. All of this mayhem, dear reader, for something that doesn’t flower, and you can’t eat it! Enough!
Are you still attached to your perfect lawn? Are you willing to consider other ground covers? Rock, paving stone, and bark chips will stand up to the toughest conditions. Indeed, they are the only things that stand up to TGD’s non-gardening dogs. Mulch is soft and ideal for running children. Creeping Thyme or Vinca will stand up to a moderate amount of foot traffic and require no mowing. All of these will cover ground, are nice to look at, and are much kinder to our planet.
If you must maintain your lawn: TGD does earnestly implore you to observe the following conditions:
- Plant grass that grows in Alberta – probably a Fescue variety. Leave Kentucky Blue Grass in Kentucky!
- Do all you can to make your lawn as healthy as possible, avoiding horrible pesticides and fertilizers (the fishes and the earth worms!).
- Rake your lawn each spring to remove the thatch and add a top dressing of 2 inches of compost.
- Use a newer mulching lawn mower and leave the clippings on your lawn to fertilize your lawn, reduce the amount of water your lawn needs, and keep those weeds down. Keep your lawn mower blade sharp cut only dry grass to a height of no less than 3 inches.
- Water your lawn about an inch a week, less if it rains. And for the love of lobelia, please don’t water the side walk! TGD assures you, Dear Reader, it will not grow!
TGD lives and gardens in Edmonton, with the trés wonderful gardening diva husband and the non-gardening dogs. She longs to get back to the days when she and the gardening mother could cut the grass in their backyard with a weed whacker. Next month she will talk more about wee ickle bugs.
Have a great day, see you back on Wednesday, hopefully with a finished baby sweater, for, you know, the baby that is already here.
The Garden Diva’s editor insists that she finish this column - in spite of the myriad of things TGD still needs to plant. In the midst of work that is TGD’s true calling, she is to sit and write about caring for your lawn! Bah, Dear Reader, Bah!
TGD’s solution is really quite simple – get rid of your lawn already! Really Dear Reader, don’t look so shocked. Lawns are expensive to maintain, they are ecological disasters, they are an enormous amount of work, and many grasses don’t grow all that well here. It’s the green, grass of Kentucky. Does it look like Kentucky around here?
About that environmental cost. Fertilizer contains phosphorous. Did you know, Dear Reader that the province of Manitoba has limited the amount of phosphorous in a fertilizer to 1 percent? When a gardener over fertilizes their yard, that extra phosphorus winds up in sloughs and ponds, where it turns into an algal bloom, and chokes out the wee, ickle fishies. Pesticides, dear reader, kill good bugs, including the wee tiny earth worms that are aerating your soil for you. 60-90 % of earth worms will die after an application of pesticides.
And the cost? Dear Reader, Americans spent $30 Million on lawn maintenance in 2002? Did you know that your old 4HP lawnmower creates as much smog producing particles in hour of use, as does driving your car 200 Miles (American Statistics, Dear Reader). And then Dear Reader, there are those of you that throw out your lawn clippings – 30 percent of landfill bound waste is yard waste. All of this mayhem, dear reader, for something that doesn’t flower, and you can’t eat it! Enough!
Are you still attached to your perfect lawn? Are you willing to consider other ground covers? Rock, paving stone, and bark chips will stand up to the toughest conditions. Indeed, they are the only things that stand up to TGD’s non-gardening dogs. Mulch is soft and ideal for running children. Creeping Thyme or Vinca will stand up to a moderate amount of foot traffic and require no mowing. All of these will cover ground, are nice to look at, and are much kinder to our planet.
If you must maintain your lawn: TGD does earnestly implore you to observe the following conditions:
- Plant grass that grows in Alberta – probably a Fescue variety. Leave Kentucky Blue Grass in Kentucky!
- Do all you can to make your lawn as healthy as possible, avoiding horrible pesticides and fertilizers (the fishes and the earth worms!).
- Rake your lawn each spring to remove the thatch and add a top dressing of 2 inches of compost.
- Use a newer mulching lawn mower and leave the clippings on your lawn to fertilize your lawn, reduce the amount of water your lawn needs, and keep those weeds down. Keep your lawn mower blade sharp cut only dry grass to a height of no less than 3 inches.
- Water your lawn about an inch a week, less if it rains. And for the love of lobelia, please don’t water the side walk! TGD assures you, Dear Reader, it will not grow!
TGD lives and gardens in Edmonton, with the trés wonderful gardening diva husband and the non-gardening dogs. She longs to get back to the days when she and the gardening mother could cut the grass in their backyard with a weed whacker. Next month she will talk more about wee ickle bugs.
The Patience of Unanswered Prayer
I planted my vegetable garden a week ago, and none of the seeds have germinated. Every day, often twice a day, I look at my garden and I am struck by an irrational fear: what if nothing grows? Every year, this fear: what if nothing comes up.
So much of what happens, especially at this stage, is happening in a dark and secret world. I have no knowledge of whether or not things are working as they should. And all I have left is 20 years of gardening experience to tell me: garden's don't entirely fail to germinate barring a catastrophe. Sure, the peas may not grow, but the entire garden? Something will come up. It always does. I must remind myself that history is on my side. And silence the voices in my head that remind me of the catastrophe's of this year.
I am looking at plants in my flower beds, and trying to decide if they are dead, or merely still sleeping. Did my forget-me-not's forget to wake up, or must I accept that they died during this long, cold winter? I have no explanation of why they should have died. They are hardy to Zone 3, they were covered with snow, they were watered in this fall, and given water in early spring to help them wake up. I am strangely angry over their failure to live. I swear I will never buy plants there again. Dumb plants that they didn't grow. I am resentful of wasting a permanent plant marker on them, and I wonder if I should only mark things the second year - after they have lived through the testing of an Alberta Winter. I begrudge them the water and the fertilizer and the weeding they received last year. I am frustrated that I should have spent time on them.
I am frustrated with hopes that remain unanswered. I am aware that I am waiting on things uncertain.
And in the midst of all of this, I am remembering the service on Sunday. I am remembering the line in the hymn- about the patience of unanswered prayer. I am seeing the lines drawn between my garden and Gabriel, between waiting and hoping, frustration and sorrow.
I have been a Christian for 14 years now. And I have prayed millions of prayers. Prayers that were quick, were long, that were agonized. Prayers thrown up to God, hoping He would catch them as I rushed to do something or be somewhere. Prayers for strangers - the woman crying on the phone, "Lord, be with her".
None of those prayers were so desperate, so dire, so frantic, so frenzied as mine for my son. I remember my prayer as I drove home from the Midwife's after my diagnosis: "Lord, I'm so frightened". I remember the prayers in the hospital while they tested me. "Lord, please get this under control". I remembered the prayers as I looked at Mr. Spit in the small diagnosis room. "Something's wrong, the Resident is concerned." I remember the prayers to steel myself as the senior Perinatologist came in the room and admitted me, so that I could give birth to a to a baby that would die. I remember my frantic prayers for a miracle, for an outcome other than death - bartering, begging, pleading. I remember prayers bracketed by the blood pressure machine - the beginning of liturgy as the cuff started inflating "Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace. . ." and I remember the sad and defeated beep-beep of the machine, as it announced that still, my blood pressure was too high.
I remember that one last injunction to push, from deep within my body. A power, stronger than I have ever known - a prayer of my body, perhaps. I did not know that my body could contain such might - such force to make me do that which I did not want to do. I remember the red of Mr. Spit's shirt, I remember the feel of his hands on my shoulders. And I remembered that one last prayer of Christ's - before his death saying "Father if it is possible, take this cup of sorrows from me".
And finally, I remember my prayers a few days after Gabriel's birth. Prayers of thankfulness that my life was spared. Prayers of gratitude that Gabriel was born alive. Prayers that he was able to be baptized, which meant so much to me. Prayers of thanksgiving that my amazing midwife was with us. Prayers thanking God that I had been pregnant at all.
I hear that my faith must be strong. My faith is small and weak. I have no answers for why this tragedy should have struck me. A classic education, discussions on what the philosphers call the problem of pain, means nothing in this most private of pain. Augustine, Aquinas, Anselm, Descartes, Hume, Locke, Kant - what do they know of dead babies? What do they know of agony or terror or emptiness?
The problem of pain is not that God did not answer all of those prayers for Gabriel, it is that He said "no". And this answer? I do not understand it.
It is the small, pallid, agonizing story that was Gabriel's life, and is his death, it is this set of facts that leave me to my true unanswered prayer:
Why Lord? Why?
So much of what happens, especially at this stage, is happening in a dark and secret world. I have no knowledge of whether or not things are working as they should. And all I have left is 20 years of gardening experience to tell me: garden's don't entirely fail to germinate barring a catastrophe. Sure, the peas may not grow, but the entire garden? Something will come up. It always does. I must remind myself that history is on my side. And silence the voices in my head that remind me of the catastrophe's of this year.
I am looking at plants in my flower beds, and trying to decide if they are dead, or merely still sleeping. Did my forget-me-not's forget to wake up, or must I accept that they died during this long, cold winter? I have no explanation of why they should have died. They are hardy to Zone 3, they were covered with snow, they were watered in this fall, and given water in early spring to help them wake up. I am strangely angry over their failure to live. I swear I will never buy plants there again. Dumb plants that they didn't grow. I am resentful of wasting a permanent plant marker on them, and I wonder if I should only mark things the second year - after they have lived through the testing of an Alberta Winter. I begrudge them the water and the fertilizer and the weeding they received last year. I am frustrated that I should have spent time on them.
I am frustrated with hopes that remain unanswered. I am aware that I am waiting on things uncertain.
And in the midst of all of this, I am remembering the service on Sunday. I am remembering the line in the hymn- about the patience of unanswered prayer. I am seeing the lines drawn between my garden and Gabriel, between waiting and hoping, frustration and sorrow.
I have been a Christian for 14 years now. And I have prayed millions of prayers. Prayers that were quick, were long, that were agonized. Prayers thrown up to God, hoping He would catch them as I rushed to do something or be somewhere. Prayers for strangers - the woman crying on the phone, "Lord, be with her".
None of those prayers were so desperate, so dire, so frantic, so frenzied as mine for my son. I remember my prayer as I drove home from the Midwife's after my diagnosis: "Lord, I'm so frightened". I remember the prayers in the hospital while they tested me. "Lord, please get this under control". I remembered the prayers as I looked at Mr. Spit in the small diagnosis room. "Something's wrong, the Resident is concerned." I remember the prayers to steel myself as the senior Perinatologist came in the room and admitted me, so that I could give birth to a to a baby that would die. I remember my frantic prayers for a miracle, for an outcome other than death - bartering, begging, pleading. I remember prayers bracketed by the blood pressure machine - the beginning of liturgy as the cuff started inflating "Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace. . ." and I remember the sad and defeated beep-beep of the machine, as it announced that still, my blood pressure was too high.
I remember that one last injunction to push, from deep within my body. A power, stronger than I have ever known - a prayer of my body, perhaps. I did not know that my body could contain such might - such force to make me do that which I did not want to do. I remember the red of Mr. Spit's shirt, I remember the feel of his hands on my shoulders. And I remembered that one last prayer of Christ's - before his death saying "Father if it is possible, take this cup of sorrows from me".
And finally, I remember my prayers a few days after Gabriel's birth. Prayers of thankfulness that my life was spared. Prayers of gratitude that Gabriel was born alive. Prayers that he was able to be baptized, which meant so much to me. Prayers of thanksgiving that my amazing midwife was with us. Prayers thanking God that I had been pregnant at all.
I hear that my faith must be strong. My faith is small and weak. I have no answers for why this tragedy should have struck me. A classic education, discussions on what the philosphers call the problem of pain, means nothing in this most private of pain. Augustine, Aquinas, Anselm, Descartes, Hume, Locke, Kant - what do they know of dead babies? What do they know of agony or terror or emptiness?
The problem of pain is not that God did not answer all of those prayers for Gabriel, it is that He said "no". And this answer? I do not understand it.
It is the small, pallid, agonizing story that was Gabriel's life, and is his death, it is this set of facts that leave me to my true unanswered prayer:
Why Lord? Why?
Hey Mrs. Spit, what are you doing this weekend?
REMINDER: Whiny Thursday - go write your whinge out - Prizes!
Yes, this means you.
So, it's the Victoria day long weekend here in Canada, also known as the May 2-4 weekend, (even though it doesn't fall on a May 24th this Year). It's to celebrate Queen Victoria's birthday, and actually the reigning Monarch's as well. Although HRH Elizabeth II was actually born on April 21 (we Canandian's are much too polite to protest about this flagrant trickery). Additionally the May long weekend represents the 3 days I get to fly the Union Jack from my flag pole, and yes, we toast the Queen on Monday.
Oh, and there's the other thing that every.single.person. in Canada(except for those freaks in Victoria that have been gardening since February) does - plant their garden.
So, this weekend, what am I doing?
Well, on Saturday 3 cubic yards of rock are showing up at my back gate. And those of you better at depth perception and volume perception need not tell me how much rock this is. . .
So, this will be into stone.
Umm yes, there's a lot of ahem, doggy night soil, mixed in with this. We are hoping that the rock shall be more, washable.
And then there's the planting stuff. All of this is for on old laundry sink I'm going to use as a planter. Well, not the column. That's for a sun dial Mr. Spit and I are buying each other for our anniversary.
Yes, this means you.
So, it's the Victoria day long weekend here in Canada, also known as the May 2-4 weekend, (even though it doesn't fall on a May 24th this Year). It's to celebrate Queen Victoria's birthday, and actually the reigning Monarch's as well. Although HRH Elizabeth II was actually born on April 21 (we Canandian's are much too polite to protest about this flagrant trickery). Additionally the May long weekend represents the 3 days I get to fly the Union Jack from my flag pole, and yes, we toast the Queen on Monday.
Oh, and there's the other thing that every.single.person. in Canada(except for those freaks in Victoria that have been gardening since February) does - plant their garden.
So, this weekend, what am I doing?
Well, on Saturday 3 cubic yards of rock are showing up at my back gate. And those of you better at depth perception and volume perception need not tell me how much rock this is. . .So, this will be into stone.
Umm yes, there's a lot of ahem, doggy night soil, mixed in with this. We are hoping that the rock shall be more, washable.
And then there's the planting stuff. All of this is for on old laundry sink I'm going to use as a planter. Well, not the column. That's for a sun dial Mr. Spit and I are buying each other for our anniversary.
Ahh, yes. This is from Mrs. Spit's wee old grow op. Where in I grow a bazillon tomato's, and almost all my bedding plants, and herbs and a few other things. Let's see, there's 8 holes in each row, and 4 rows to a tray, and there are 6 trays, so that's . . . (where's that calculator JuliaS?
Umm, that's 192 plants to stick in the ground.
Look, the pansies didn't grow too well this year, and the bergenia (far left) and the speedwell (middle) were on sale! ON SALE!And the roses, well, they were on sale. For $10 a pop. These are Morden and Explorer roses. In
other words, the only kind that actually grow in Alberta!
Oh, and when I finish that, I need to dig the bed to put in Gabriel's tree. And a few of those roses. And some other stuff that I clearly won't have room for in the existing beds.
And then, I'm going to be digging up grass to put down some paving stones for under my chimenea. Very excited about that.
Oh, and I have to be off, to buy some more bedding plants (for the planters, stop looking at me like this!)
So, I may not write too much this weekend, and um, anyone looking for a few good coleus?
The Garden Diva in May
Bedding PlantsDear Readers, it is here! The month of May, when all is blissful, all is green, and gardens are finally planted.
So then, you are all of f to the local store to buy your bedding plants? Not quite so quickly, dear reader. Learn from The Garden Diva’s (TGD) folly, read some of her mistakes, so you don’t have to make your own.
Over the years, TGD has often found herself promising the tres wonderful garden diva husband that she would only purchase a certain dollar value of bedding plants. (No dear reader, you don’t want to know how much. Sufficed to say that there were zero’s and decimal points.) After many sad reckonings, TGD now takes her garden plans, carefully calculates the number of bedding plants she requires, and makes a list. Here is the important part, dear reader, she only purchases what is on the list. (Honestly dear reader, why are you snickering? Have you been talking to the garden diva husband again?)
Next, consider when you want to plant. Remember, the average last frost date is May 7th. (TGD plants all her garden seeds around this time, if not earlier). It is often best to wait a bit until putting your bedding plants out - many people go to their local garden centre or store on the first day of the May long weekend. TGD tends to go before this, to ensure that she has the absolute best selection, and the healthiest plants. Often she will go on the Friday night. This is when the veteran gardeners go. Wear comfortable shoes and have a list. You will need them.
Perhaps the most important thing to consider when buying bedding plants is the health of the plant. Choose good sized plants with healthy leaves. Examine the plants closely. The soil should be moist. Avoid plants that are very dry (the plant will feel very light and the dirt will be light brown and hard) or plants that are very wet (water drips out of the soil when squeezed, or there is evidence of moss or mold).
Check for sun damage – yellow or brown spots on leaves, or insects – small portions of the leaves looking chewed, holes in the leaves, bugs on the undersides of plants or rolled up leaves.
Look at the roots, they should not be coming out of the bottom of the plant cell. Carefully grasp a seedling at it’s base, pull it out of the plant cell. You should be able to see a good root system, but avoid roots that are spiralled around the plant – these are root bound and may not transplant well.
Choose plants that are a good size, and quite bushy. You don’t want spindly little seedlings that will die in full sun. Review TGD’s columns from May 2007 regarding planting, and the April 2007 column on getting your dirt ready.
Finally dear reader, a note about where to buy your plants – feel free to purchase your geraniums, your petunias and your pansies from where ever you can find them on sale (just get healthy ones). If you are purchasing more expensive and exotic bedding plants, or if you are purchasing perennials, do not purchase those from anything other than a garden centre. A garden center can provide you with good information about the location to plant your new darling, any extra soil amendments, and if necessary, any overwintering measures to take. Really dear readers, a knowledgeable garden centre is a gardener’s greatest asset.
TGD lives and gardens in Edmonton, with the trés wonderful gardening diva husband and the non-gardening dogs. She insists that every yard should have a flower or two. Next month she shall talk about your front lawn. Yes dear reader, yours. The one with all the weeds in it.
What I would have taught him
I would have had him weed with me. A horrible form of child abuse, accompanied by protestations of "Aww mum, other families just buy their food at the grocery store"
And I would have taught him to watch with his eyes and his hands. Plants coming back to life after winter are fragile things. What we see and what we feel are different. Trust your feelings, your remembrances before you blindly believe what is in front of you. There is life all around us.
I would have taught him that weeding matters - pulling weeds in spring is easier than pulling weeds in late summer. You don't have to do everything perfectly, but some things should be done well. Choose what you put your effort into.
I would have taught him about the secret lives of insects. Of worms that move through the soil, fertilizing and aerating. Of ladybugs that eat insects, of beetles, of ants. I would have taught him the wonder of an ant colony, and the need to sit and watch for hours, to truly understand. I would have taught him that all living things have worth, and we need to be kind to creation, at least until it eats the beans.
I would have taught him to be patient, gardens take time. Seeds are slow to germinate, plants are slow to grow. Gardens involve long term planning. You will need to see the next five years in your head before you see the results in front of your eyes. You will water and hoe and weed and thin long before you ever pick or eat. And what you planted, it will look nothing like what you pictured, and nothing like the photo. That's ok. What it looks like is what it is.
I would have taught him the joy of honest work. Of the ache in your shoulders and the back of your thighs, that speaks of digging and turning over soil, of crouching down to pull weeds, of moving backwards as you plant a row of seeds. I would have taught him that after a day of hard work, you sit on your back deck, you will be proud. Of the work that you have done, and the life that you have coaxed forth. And one day, on that deck, I would have handed him his first beer, because gardeners get beer after a long day, and I don't care that you are only 13.
I would have taught him that having a plan saves time. But plans aren't just organization, they are dreams. And dreams matter in this world. I would have taught him of the companionship we can have with those who share our dreams. And that when you strike out in this world on your own, you should find someone who can share your dreams.
I would have taught him about sustainability. A good garden requires far more of you, than you get out of it. I would have taught him that pesticides and insecticides and fertilizer are no compensation for time and sweat and good compost dug in, they are the easy way out. I would have taught him that we must consider how we act, and how we treat the earth. There are many people on the earth, and we must make our footprints small, and it doesn't matter what bags and bottles the neighbour opens, you just keep digging up that quack grass.
I would have taught him that nothing is certain, and that you sometimes have t0 pick yourself up and start over after you loose everything to frost, to bugs, to early winter, to rain, to just the vagaries of seeds. Nothing in this life is certain but death and quack grass. There's always next year.
I would have taught him that in the year the broccoli is eaten by moth's, and the potato's by beetles, that is the year that the carrots will take off. And that there is no bug or pest or blight that will eat an entire crop of zucchini, and that's why you are grating it for chocolate cake.
I would have taught him the joy of feeding your own family. I would have taught him the very special wonder that is a carrot dug fresh from the ground, cold and wet, rinsed off under the garden hose. I would have taught him the sweetness in a pod of garden peas. Pulled off the vine on a hot day, warm in your mouth. I would have taught him the smell of fresh herbs on your hands, as you move to pick them, dodging lazy bees who seek flowers for their honey.
The smell of fresh dirt has a fragrance all it's own. Flowers have their own thoughts and heart, and vegetables are a new promise every spring.
These things my son, these things, I would have taught you.
And I would have taught him to watch with his eyes and his hands. Plants coming back to life after winter are fragile things. What we see and what we feel are different. Trust your feelings, your remembrances before you blindly believe what is in front of you. There is life all around us.
I would have taught him that weeding matters - pulling weeds in spring is easier than pulling weeds in late summer. You don't have to do everything perfectly, but some things should be done well. Choose what you put your effort into.
I would have taught him about the secret lives of insects. Of worms that move through the soil, fertilizing and aerating. Of ladybugs that eat insects, of beetles, of ants. I would have taught him the wonder of an ant colony, and the need to sit and watch for hours, to truly understand. I would have taught him that all living things have worth, and we need to be kind to creation, at least until it eats the beans.
I would have taught him to be patient, gardens take time. Seeds are slow to germinate, plants are slow to grow. Gardens involve long term planning. You will need to see the next five years in your head before you see the results in front of your eyes. You will water and hoe and weed and thin long before you ever pick or eat. And what you planted, it will look nothing like what you pictured, and nothing like the photo. That's ok. What it looks like is what it is.
I would have taught him the joy of honest work. Of the ache in your shoulders and the back of your thighs, that speaks of digging and turning over soil, of crouching down to pull weeds, of moving backwards as you plant a row of seeds. I would have taught him that after a day of hard work, you sit on your back deck, you will be proud. Of the work that you have done, and the life that you have coaxed forth. And one day, on that deck, I would have handed him his first beer, because gardeners get beer after a long day, and I don't care that you are only 13.
I would have taught him that having a plan saves time. But plans aren't just organization, they are dreams. And dreams matter in this world. I would have taught him of the companionship we can have with those who share our dreams. And that when you strike out in this world on your own, you should find someone who can share your dreams.
I would have taught him about sustainability. A good garden requires far more of you, than you get out of it. I would have taught him that pesticides and insecticides and fertilizer are no compensation for time and sweat and good compost dug in, they are the easy way out. I would have taught him that we must consider how we act, and how we treat the earth. There are many people on the earth, and we must make our footprints small, and it doesn't matter what bags and bottles the neighbour opens, you just keep digging up that quack grass.
I would have taught him that nothing is certain, and that you sometimes have t0 pick yourself up and start over after you loose everything to frost, to bugs, to early winter, to rain, to just the vagaries of seeds. Nothing in this life is certain but death and quack grass. There's always next year.
I would have taught him that in the year the broccoli is eaten by moth's, and the potato's by beetles, that is the year that the carrots will take off. And that there is no bug or pest or blight that will eat an entire crop of zucchini, and that's why you are grating it for chocolate cake.
I would have taught him the joy of feeding your own family. I would have taught him the very special wonder that is a carrot dug fresh from the ground, cold and wet, rinsed off under the garden hose. I would have taught him the sweetness in a pod of garden peas. Pulled off the vine on a hot day, warm in your mouth. I would have taught him the smell of fresh herbs on your hands, as you move to pick them, dodging lazy bees who seek flowers for their honey.
The smell of fresh dirt has a fragrance all it's own. Flowers have their own thoughts and heart, and vegetables are a new promise every spring.
These things my son, these things, I would have taught you.
The Garden Diva
The Garden Diva (TGD) is my alter ego. She's expansive, gregarious, informed and loves to teach other's about gardening. Oh, and she's a tiny bit opinionated. She (I) write(s) a column for our local community paper, the famous, the infamous Rat Creek Press!
I thought I'd post her column here.
Suburbia is where the developer bulldozes out the trees, then names the streets after them.
- Bill Vaughan
Dear Readers, this last December, The Gardening Diva and The trés wonderful Gardening Diva husband suffered a tragic loss. Winter has been a sorrowful time for us, and we have looked forward to the planting of a tree to mark a small, much missed life. Trees are an important part of our lives: we play in them, harvest their fruit, garden around them, sit underneath them and mark our holidays by decorating them with lights. Indeed, dear readers, trees remain a great symbol of life. One of the few garden plants that will outlive us, they are a powerful testament to the optimism of a gardener.
- Bill Vaughan
Dear Readers, this last December, The Gardening Diva and The trés wonderful Gardening Diva husband suffered a tragic loss. Winter has been a sorrowful time for us, and we have looked forward to the planting of a tree to mark a small, much missed life. Trees are an important part of our lives: we play in them, harvest their fruit, garden around them, sit underneath them and mark our holidays by decorating them with lights. Indeed, dear readers, trees remain a great symbol of life. One of the few garden plants that will outlive us, they are a powerful testament to the optimism of a gardener.
In this column, I shall discuss a few elements of choosing a tree.
Find out how large in height and spread we can expect the tree to grow. TGD is aware that right now your wee tree is only a foot tall, but it is unreasonable for a gardener to refuse to acknowledge that the cute little sapling will turn into a Manitoba maple like my neighbours’tree—some 25 metres tall, with a spread of 15 metres. So think dear reader, can you fit that huge tree into your tiny lot?
To fruit or not
TGD still cringes at the horror of relentless, unending, tiny, little crab apples that TGD’s mother insisted on turning into jelly, lest they rot on the ground. Fruit can be wonderful, but only if you pick it, prepare it in some way and store it. If you let it rot dear reader, you may rest assured that it will be nothing more than a meal for wasps and a reason for your neighbours to protest. Having said that, there are varieties of cherries, plums, apples, and even pears that will thrive in our zone three climate. Consider purchasing a tree that is not only beautiful, but practical as well. Pay close attention, trees may require mates to produce fruit.
To flower or not
Around about the second week of May, TGD begins to smell the most wonderful fragrance. For years, she knew it wasn’t lilacs, and it wasn’t the salt bush tree in her neighbours front yard (although it is very pretty); it was a mayday tree. Covered with small white flowers, sometimes mistaken for a lilac, these trees are very fragrant, and one of the first trees to leaf out in spring. Flowering trees are a wonderful hint of spring in a garden that is still partly asleep.
Interesting texture and winter colour
Remember dear reader, your tree will only have leaves for perhaps six months—you will want to consider what the tree looks like in winter. Consider planting evergreens, often the only bits of colour in our white winter landscape. TGD is also particularly fond of the rowan tree (mountain ash). These wonderful trees have a lovely bronzy bark and orange berries. So then, a few trees to think about: consider an amur maple for beautiful fall colour, a columnar aspen for wonderful foliage in a narrow space, a weeping caragana to add interest to a small space, or a mogul.
TGD and the trés wonderful Gardening Diva husband will be planting a Young’s weeping birch, to remember their lost love.
Find out how large in height and spread we can expect the tree to grow. TGD is aware that right now your wee tree is only a foot tall, but it is unreasonable for a gardener to refuse to acknowledge that the cute little sapling will turn into a Manitoba maple like my neighbours’tree—some 25 metres tall, with a spread of 15 metres. So think dear reader, can you fit that huge tree into your tiny lot?
To fruit or not
TGD still cringes at the horror of relentless, unending, tiny, little crab apples that TGD’s mother insisted on turning into jelly, lest they rot on the ground. Fruit can be wonderful, but only if you pick it, prepare it in some way and store it. If you let it rot dear reader, you may rest assured that it will be nothing more than a meal for wasps and a reason for your neighbours to protest. Having said that, there are varieties of cherries, plums, apples, and even pears that will thrive in our zone three climate. Consider purchasing a tree that is not only beautiful, but practical as well. Pay close attention, trees may require mates to produce fruit.
To flower or not
Around about the second week of May, TGD begins to smell the most wonderful fragrance. For years, she knew it wasn’t lilacs, and it wasn’t the salt bush tree in her neighbours front yard (although it is very pretty); it was a mayday tree. Covered with small white flowers, sometimes mistaken for a lilac, these trees are very fragrant, and one of the first trees to leaf out in spring. Flowering trees are a wonderful hint of spring in a garden that is still partly asleep.
Interesting texture and winter colour
Remember dear reader, your tree will only have leaves for perhaps six months—you will want to consider what the tree looks like in winter. Consider planting evergreens, often the only bits of colour in our white winter landscape. TGD is also particularly fond of the rowan tree (mountain ash). These wonderful trees have a lovely bronzy bark and orange berries. So then, a few trees to think about: consider an amur maple for beautiful fall colour, a columnar aspen for wonderful foliage in a narrow space, a weeping caragana to add interest to a small space, or a mogul.
TGD and the trés wonderful Gardening Diva husband will be planting a Young’s weeping birch, to remember their lost love.
