On Weeding

I learned three lessons from my father the master gardener.  

As I kneel to breathe in the fragrance of rich earth, 

Separating beneficial from non-beneficial,

I hear his wise words.

One:  know well the plants that don’t serve you; dig them up by the roots, so they won’t return to haunt you and your garden.

Two:  shake off every bit of precious earth clinging to a weed’s roots; let the black gold fall back into the rich soil.

Three:  be gentle with the noble earthworm rising briefly from his tunnels; release him to burrow back into the dark and continue his work; he’s the earth’s friend, and yours.

Morning Glory Massacre

Soaked for over a day,
The seeds hold heavenly blue promise.
Carefully nicked then planted
An inch apart in groups of four,
Caressed by the rich earth in the front corner
 Just next to the chain link fence.

Seedlings emerge on schedule only to be
Ruthlessly thinned for their own good.
Each day their growth
Sends soothing green shoots of well being through my heart.
I envision the vines climbing the fence,
The eventual morning emergence of blue glory.
Pride goeth before the fall.

One fine Monday the unintentionally ruthless lawn crew
Diligently edges, edges, edges
The grassy patch of hope.
Off with their heads!
Thus occurs The Great Morning Glory Massacre of 2015.

Now I reach down into the depths of my soul
For comfort, for the right story to tell myself,
For the energy to replant.
I remind myself of various global tragedies, comparing mine.
I pause to breathe.
Then patiently explain the entire story
(Well no, the Reader’s Digest version of the story)
To Andy’s Pretty Good Lawn Service:
Offering reassurances (how were they to know?),
Receiving reassurances (they will take greater care!)

The Dalai Lama said, “Choose to be optimistic; it feels better.”
Besides, I see now that a few seedlings from the first planting survived,
No doubt hoping for companionship--
No doubt optimistic because it feels better.

The Christmas Cactus

A little less than a year ago, I received a Christmas gift. It was a Christmas cactus with a note attached explaining that if I took good care of it, next Christmas it would bloom.  I set it on my desk at work, and as the new year began I made a pledge to myself that despite my decidedly not green thumb, in this case I would channel my father the master gardener and tend lovingly to this cactus, in hopes of seeing the promised Christmas blooms.

The Internet is your friend in cases like this and I found a wealth of advice on how to care for a Christmas cactus, with promises of abundant blooms next holiday season.  I conquered my sense that it would be hopeless (based on the mourned deaths of houseplants past who were unfortunate enough to be under my care).   I acted on faith alone and  entered a repeating note in my computer calendar for each Tuesday morning that said:  “Smile.  And water the Christmas cactus.”  Each Tuesday I did just that.  

A few months ago something told me to move the cactus to a sunnier corner of my office to catch the western sunlight.  In early November the Christmas cactus pushed out many promising buds.  By Thanksgiving, glorious pink blooms emerged.  And they’ve continued to grace my office with their happy color all this holiday season.

I assure you that I am grateful for the many ways this past year I’ve seen proof that faith can work miracles and bring unexpected blessings; I wish both of these for each of you this Christmas season.

Earth Day 1970

White tents and booths with information on compost piles and solar panels have sprung up in Boulder’s Civic Park for Earthfest on this partly sunny spring day. I remember the very first Earth Day, in 1970. I was a member (I might actually have been president, I can’t recall for sure) of the Edgewood High School Ecology Club. One of our main projects was to build a large brightly painted wooden box with a hinged lid which we placed just outside the entrance to the grocery store in Ellettsville, Indiana. Here, ecology-minded citizens could deposit their newspapers and cardboard for recycling (back then, this was pretty much the full range of our ability to recycle materials, at least in Ellettsville). Periodically when the box was overflowing and the grocery store manager’s annoyance had reached its peak, we would borrow a truck, load all the newspapers into the back, and drive to the west side of Bloomington where there was a place we could unload the papers for recycling.

Today in Boulder we have three separate containers right outside our house, one for paper, cardboard, glass and plastic, one for compost material (vegetables, egg shells, coffee grounds) and one for the irredeemably unrecyclable remaining crap, which we try through good buying habits to keep to a minimum. The contents of each of these are conveniently hauled off on a regular basis as part of our trash service. We have a little white ceramic compost collector by the sink lined with a pale green compostable bag and I always feel a tiny sense of accomplishment when I carry one of these full bags of vegetable discard out to the larger compost container. We are lightweights, however, as there are other people right in our neighborhood with their own compost piles and large vegetable gardens on which they spread the compost they generate. Even so, we continue to make small strides to better honor Mother Earth and hope that the larger initiatives for renewable energy will take hold.

Another thing my Ecology Club did back in 1970 was create and perform a short save-the-earth skit at various schools in the area, and at the end of the skit as the finale we paraded into the audience singing a song, me leading the way with my trusty guitar. Our teacher and sponsor was Mrs. Wilt, a tiny bespectacled woman with long black hair whose quietly radical teaching style somehow slipped under the radar of our rabidly conservative school administration back then. She selected and helped us learn a song for our traveling ecology road show; peculiarly enough in retrospect, the song was “Suicide is Painless,” the theme from Mash:

Through early morning fog I see
Visions of the things to be
The things that are withheld for me
I realize and I can see
That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I could take or leave it if I please…

So, “WTF?” you might well ask, children (because only my children could possibly still be reading this, and I can’t be certain of that). I think the song was meant in this context to evoke the same concept as the image of the unaware frog in the bath being slowly brought to a boil. And thus ends another strange tale of long ago and far away in Ellettsville, Indiana, US of A.

Persimmon Pudding

When I was a little girl back in Indiana we always went to Grandmother’s old brick house on Dunn Street in Bloomington for Thanksgiving Dinner. The table would be set beautifully, with polished silver candlesticks and flatware, and a real lace tablecloth. We feasted on roast turkey, rich dark brown gravy, dressing, mashed and sweet potatoes, green beans simmered with bacon, and Grandmother’s special, tart, not-for-everybody cranberry and orange relish. For at least one dessert we would always have persimmon pudding with whipped cream on top. The persimmons were gathered from beneath persimmon trees on a nearby property my grandparents called “the farm.” I knew nothing of how such a dinner was orchestrated and set upon the table with exactly the right timing—Grandmother made it look very easy. I might be asked to bring some of the dishes to the table or fill the water glasses.

After Grandmother was gone, my mother made the Thanksgiving dinner each year at our house on Sugar Lane. I helped a lot more at this point so I could start to see how bringing such a feast to the dinner table was like an air traffic controller managing the simultaneous landing of several Boeing 777’s at the same airport—a calm demeanor and careful planning were both essential. My Mom also made it look easy but I began to understand what it took, and helped as much as possible with the relish plate containing the olives, celery and carrot sticks, and the traditional green beans simmered with bacon. But my father was always the one to make the persimmon pudding. He had planted persimmon trees many years before up in his vast garden, using seeds obtained from the farm—and each year he would harvest the persimmons that had fallen to the ground and were starting to soften, peel them and mash them into a rich orange pulp. With the precise care and intense breathing he applied to most important tasks he would mix and bake the persimmon pudding. I began to see that this was homage to his mother perhaps, although we never talked about it.

Later, I moved far away to Colorado and began to have Thanksgiving dinners of my own, learning to overcome the momentary panic when confronting a large turkey ready to be stuffed, calling my mother for advice where necessary.

Me on the phone: Mom—there are icicles inside the turkey!!
Mom: Yeah, there always are—just knock ‘em aside and stuff the old bird.

My father would painstakingly ship me enough frozen persimmon pulp for one batch of persimmon pudding, which due to his master skills at packaging and shipping would arrive in perfect time and condition for me to make the dessert for my Colorado Thanksgivings.

Dad is gone now, but persimmons can be found around this time of year in the produce department of most grocery stores.  And so this holiday I give thanks for these memories and I pay homage to those who came before me as I slowly and lovingly mix the ingredients for today’s persimmon pudding we will have with our family feast to come in a few hours. M is in charge of most of the cooking, since he is the master cook in the family, but I do the pudding, and the traditional green beans simmered with bacon.

Happy Thanksgiving to all. May each person reading this make and hold dear all the beautiful memories of your own families.

Seasons

M and I walk north from Pearl on 13th and make our way to the North Boulder Community Gardens where piles of mulch and bales of straw announce the approach of winter. I notice for the first time a red stone bench with two trees planted in the half-circle. Someone has placed a few wicker chairs with comfortable backs in the half-circle as well, and the little park looks south over the gardens toward the Flatirons. The chair back feels warm from the sun as I settle into it and gaze at the view; I’m grateful for a momentary sense of inner peace. The stone bench has five separate sections with inscriptions. It is a dedication to Thomas Clark, “A Man for All Seasons,” it says. In the center section is carved:

Thomas Clark - A Man for All Seasons
Ecclesiastes 3:1 “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven.”

I think that Thomas Clark contributed much to the Community Gardens and has been remembered in this way; I could do worse than to be remembered as a "woman for all seasons."  Two sections on either side of this are carved with phrases representing each season, and so we find:

Spring – Joyful Renewal
Summer – Generous Abundance
Fall – Passionate Celebration
Winter – Peaceful Reflection

M and I agree that on this November day we would seem to be somewhere between celebration and reflection. It is a beautiful spot, and I tell him if I go first, he should meet me here in spirit, and I would do the same for him. He agrees to this with mild amusement, but later comments with typical irreverence that it is more likely his spirit would come back in a Terre Haute whorehouse.  Despite getting a pretty good night’s sleep, he is tired today he tells me, but has been able to write again just a little this week.

Knowing as I do how much seasons can affect moods, it's comforting to have these positive phrases set in stone to describe Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter--almost like a meditational theme for each. I’ve always loved climates with clearly defined seasons; they can be relied upon to change just when you’re most ready for a new perspective.

At the Community Garden

Yesterday Mark and I walked from Vic’s Espresso Shop north up 13th to the North Boulder Community Garden. As we approached it we both breathed in the wonderful garden fragrances: green vegetation, tomato plants, freshly turned earth, compost, manure. The delicious odor of garlic drying on racks and hanging from the ceiling of a chicken wire enclosure wafted through the warm air. We strolled on narrow paths past many small plots, each reflecting the individuality of the gardener. Some were neatly planted and maintained in careful rows. Others were a riot of vegetables and flowers. One showed mastery of the skill of growing corn as high as an elephant’s eye by July in Colorado, another with cornstalks only up to my knee did not. In one space a tiny Japanese-style paved path wound through elegantly manicured flowers. In another plot, protective purple nylon net was tented over lettuce to shield it from hungry bugs. A smiling scarecrow guarded one plot, and a stuffed parrot guarded another. An arched rainbow sign graced the entrance to the separate children’s garden.

Further north were the long community rows of arugula, garlic, onion and lettuce grown by the Youth Project with instructions on a white board nearby itemizing the next work items: “Arugula needs a haircut to 2 inches—NO WEEDS!”

As is often the case with gardens, my father came to mind, how he would have loved to walk through these gardens and strike up conversations with the people there about what they were growing, what kind of luck they were having this season dealing with the weather and the bugs. He paid us kids a nickel for each of the fat, green, horned, more-than-alarming tomato worms we collected off the plants and brought to him for ultimate disposition.

The daughter and granddaughter of botanists, I somehow never learned to garden and as I have said before, I’m death on houseplants. Nevertheless I have faithfully cared for the small bonsai tree I bought in late May, diligently soaking and spraying it every other day, as a small tribute to the memory of a master gardener. So far it is thriving.

Summer Flowers

As the summer ends I want to hold fast to the memory of the beautiful flowers Mark's green thumb has kept blooming in our yard. They have given both him and me hours of joy, even though they are a lot of work. By sharing them here, I give a little past homage to my father's practice of sharing his Indiana garden flowers with friends, neighbors and nursing homes. Even though Mark and I don't pick the flowers and deliver them to others, we share them with the neighborhood and I now share them here.

There can be something calming about watering the garden and keeping it groomed, and at the same time it is a chore that calls to be done over and over again in the hot, dry Colorado summer in order not to lose the flowers to the heat, a chore that makes us ready for Autumn when it comes.

There is an essence of healing in flowers. Mark has created a small garden in the front yard we call the "Yellow Garden," which is one of the first sights I admire in the morning, and one of the first I am glad to see when I return home from work each evening. It always cheers me up.

It has several varieties of yellow flowers including a yellow snapdragon that brings back the memory of my grandfather first showing me how the snapdragon got its name, by holding the flower and squeezing the little jaws to open and close them like a little dragon.

Each year Mark says it was too much work; he will scale back or discontinue the gardening next year! And each year spring comes around and he has new ideas for expanding the yellow garden, or planting more morning glories.

Rain

It's been raining more than usual here in Colorado, a very welcome event. The rain, and the time of year, remind me of a song by Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows called Omaha. It's from their 1993 album “August and Everything After” that always makes me think of my brother Paul, who told me once that it was one of his very favorite tunes. As usual, it is the lyrics that draw me most to a song I love.

It starts out with a verse about an old man—tearing him down, rolling a new leaf over. “The old man treading around in the gathering rain,” is perhaps somebody who thinks he is so right that he walks on water. This makes me think about my brother's relationship with my dad. They loved each other, and each could never be what the other needed.

Then the chorus comes in for the first time.

“Omaha, somewhere in middle America

Get right to the heart of matters

It's the heart that matters more

I think you better turn your ticket in

And get your money back at the door”

My brother and I grew up with our family in middle America – southern Indiana to be exact. The song makes me think of Indiana’s best seasons--the rain, the earth, the green fields.

The next verse is about life change or the hope for change —“rolling a new life over.” In this verse the old man is “threading his toes through a bucket of rain.” My father was a master gardener. Dad would often garden in the rain, or simply stand outside during a rainfall to revel in the water coming for the garden or to admire the lightning show. We all tried to help him with the garden, although his standards were so high that it was hard to please him. Even weeding and watering have a right way and a wrong way, could be judged insufficient, you see. It could feel like he was walking all over you. He didn’t mean to, but he did.

For Paul, I can imagine there was always the hope of ultimately pleasing him, somehow or another. But Dad was walking on water, and Paul was underwater.

In the third verse, there is a “young man rolling around in the earth and rain” in order to “turn a new girl over.” Paul had a hard time with relationships, in his own family and with girls. In the end, he was never really able to find a long term relationship for many reasons, mostly due to his own choices and because he struggled with mental illness and addictions. He was very lonely, I think. (To “get right to the heart of the matter – it’s the heart that matters most.”)

In the end, perhaps we all want to turn our tickets in and get our money back at the door. We all have our hearts broken. This song has heart – listen to it when you get a chance. You'll be glad you did.

Strawberries in the Snow

One of my indulgences in the coldest days of winter is strawberries. We buy the clear plastic one-pound containers in grocery store, and I slice up the plump berries to provide the only sweetening I allow myself for my shredded wheat breakfast.

As I was slicing ‘em up this morning, I realized that one reason I like them is that they remind me of my father’s garden back in southern Indiana. My Dad was a master gardener. The son of a Professor of Botany, his own gardening was anything but academic. It was a heartfelt, sweat-laden work of love each summer.

Early in the spring, he would hire someone to plow the garden, and then use his rototiller to further prepare the ground. I am not talking here about a small plot. His garden was vast, with several rows each of the perennial asparagus, green onions, tomatoes, green peppers, eggplants, lettuce, rows of corn stalks, and of course the strawberry patch. Not to mention the gladiolus, snapdragons and chrysanthemums. He did not select certain ones of these each year to plant in his garden—he always had all of them because Dad never did anything half way. He also had some rows of persimmon trees at the end of the garden that would drop their fruit for us to collect and make into persimmon pudding in the fall.

Don’t tell anybody, but near the very edge of the woods there was a hidden patch of cannabis.

Dad loved the garden. He could be observed from the back of our deck after a long day at work, heading up to the garden to water, putter, plant, weed and contemplate. He suited up in gray work pants and a perspiration- and dirt-soaked white t-shirt, along with a bandanna tied Indian-style around his forehead to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes. On weekends it might well be a full day of gardening with my mother occasionally sending us up with iced tea or after 5 pm sometimes a Manhattan. If my father made his own Manhattans they would be in a large Hellman’s mayonnaise jar with a lid to avoid accidental spillage. At around 5:30 or 6:00 we would be sent up to give him the 60-minute warning that dinner would be served soon and he should come down to the house to shower and change.

Dad always kept a saltshaker up in the garden, because there is nothing in this world more delicious in the heat of a summer day than picking a ripe, warm tomato or green pepper, liberally salting it, and munching it on the spot. Those who came up to volunteer for weeding and other chores would often be offered this as their reward and well worth it.

Dad had a stone gnome attached to a tree that overlooked the garden with a somber yet bemused expression. We called it his garden gnome.

He kept a shotgun on the back deck sometimes, because all was not paradise in the garden up by the woods, and deer, rabbits, raccoons and other creatures felt a certain ownership for the delicious vegetables. Dad would shoot from the deck on occasion when encroachment was observed. Since I don’t remember ever seeing any dead bodies I would like to think he just scaring them.

One of his greatest pleasures was to take baskets of flowers and vegetables to his friends and neighbors. He also made a habit of delivering flowers to various nursing homes and hospitals. His great generosity at these times is a joy to recall. The warm strawberries from a summer day in his garden can never be duplicated, but at least I can buy a pound once in awhile in the cold of winter at the grocery store and remember.