The Garden Buzz

State of the Garden Address

"Show me your garden and I shall tell you what you are"...Alfred Austin; British scholar, politican and "plein air" poet.

Weedy and a bit overwhelmed.

Every week I tell people how to garden. However my own garden is having a bit of an existential crisis. I'm not sure I know how to garden anymore. At least for myself. 

In Kansas I was on the cutting edge with my front yard kitchen garden. And now I feel like I'm running behind all the exciting horticultural trends while living in this conventional, often snow-covered, cul de sac somewhere in the suburbs of Minneapolis.

It was more than weather and climate that changed my gardening goals when we moved to Minnesota. Our famiy was changing. And those all-important family dinners from the garden that I orchestrated with such aplumb are now just delicious memories.

With a short season and shade, not to mention the curse of the cottonwood tree, I struggle to harvest a tiny increment of what I did before. And even when what seems like a thousand cherry tomatoes ripen before my eyes, I wonder why I even planted them. Hopefully I'll make my favorite roasted cherry tomato pasta. (Click to read the recipe in the post Do You Suffer From Cherry Tomato Guilt?)

But will anyone be home to eat it? 

My son's schedule is mercurial at best, fluid with the whims of the latest text. Then two weeks from now he'll be moving to his new school, excited to be transferring to Case Western Reserve University in Ohio where he hopes to have a more fulfilling experience after "feeling like a number" at the U of MN just across the river. No more impromptu Sunday dinners at home for awhile.

My husband's schedule is frequently set in stone by the powers that be six months ago. But more often than not he just wants to go out, that same need for novelty and adventure that makes him so successful in business makes dinner at home for too many days, not so appealing.

During summers home from grad school, my daughter, an enthusiastic cook and food blogger, loves fresh produce; radishes to rhubarb and all things in between. Lately she's the one who rattles pans and rustles up dinner, that is, when we can get everyone on board. We come back from the farmers market with bags bigger than our ambitions. 

Yet there's something about walking out the door and having that hand-picked moment. So I keep planting.

Meanwhile the trees, shrubs and perennials are overgrown and weighed down with bindweed and "morning not-so-glorious". The weeds are Jurassic this summer after the tropical heat and torrential rain. I realize the garden is too big and too hilly to remain sustainable in my gardening future. I long for a smaller, flatter lot in a real neighborhood where people walk by and stop to chat about what's blooming. 

Too bad that faint whistling is the sound of Minnesota home prices dropping and not a benevolent breeze. After so many moves that weren't my idea, I can't move when it is.

Cul de sacs are coveted for their quiet and privacy but I should have taken note of the other terms used for such an arrangement. Dead end. Impasse. 

Thank goodness the turkeys and other critters pass through, at least I can still feed someone by planting wildlife habitat.

This blog is one way I'm able to continue sharing my garden in spite of the non-existent traffic in front of my home. On this two year blog-aversary, thanks for turning around in my cul de sac, even if only online.

 

 

 

Alice Criser: Nurse, Master Gardener and World's Oldest Soccer Mom

I lost a good friend today. She was 85. 

I'll never forget the first time I met Alice. Back in 2000 I was assigned to the Tuesday morning Master Gardener hotline crew and rumor had it they weren't a group to suffer fools. But that didn't mean they didn't like to fool around among the cubicles where we dispensed horticultural information to the good people of Sedgwick County.

This tiny little wrinkly woman, with a pronounced hunch and brisk manner yet a mischievous twinkle in her eye, came in my first day and immediately starting talking about her new garden experiment. She was going to take all the expired birth control pills from her clinic and sprinkle them around her garden like time-release fertilizer, she put forth a theory that the hormones might do her plants good. I think she was serious or maybe just putting on a little act for the new girl. I'll never know.

Through the years I came to learn that she had been a Navy nurse in Viet Nam. She was especially proud of introducing dental hygiene practices to the people in the village where she was stationed. And then at 74 she was still keeping to a schedule of nursing and volunteering that exhausted me just to hear about it.

She didn't take to me at first. I had to prove my worth. She and Ann and Jean knew the special ringtone of the office phone that signaled a "client" in person vs a phone-in, which they would selectively hesitate to answer. Inevitably I would always get the call to go out to the front room and have to diagnose on the spot whatever plant disease or pest was presented to me. This baptism by fire just made me a better gardener. And eventually respected by these gals, particularly Alice.

A few years before I moved away. Alice took on another job, a labor of love. She had no children of her own, but she had nephews, probably great-nephews, that were in need of a loving and stable home. At 80 she was made legal guardian of two teenage boys. She added driving to games and parent conferences to her schedule. I dubbed her the "world's oldest soccer mom". 

I identified with her feelings for her nephews, having helped to raise a nephew myself. When she was diagnosed with cancer, her greatest fear was not being there for "her boys". I know she was trying to hang on until they were both 18. The older nephew, Nick was just honored for leadership skills in conjunction with his ROTC unit. Devon is hopefully following his brother's example with his interest in computers. 

Even after I moved away, I would get those scratchy hand-written cards and letters from Alice talking about her boys, her garden, and perhaps a little gossip. 

She always said she was going to write a story about "moonlight gardens" for our newsletter. She researched it when she was between phone calls. Later I realized that the subject was dear to her since she often didn't get to see her garden except by moonlight at the end of her shifts.

Alice, I hope you are somewhere where the sun always shines on your garden so you can see it. But I still like to think of you out there in the twilight tossing those pills around your flowers!

 

 

 

 

For Mother's Day: Remembering a Visionary Gardener

I get a kick out of seeing new landscape ideas in Garden Design magazine, known for its cutting edge sensibilities; rain gardens, succulents all the rage, dry stream beds and such. I guess they didn't know my mother was doing all that 40 years ago.

Sometimes you need the perspective of time to appreciate your parents. But I think I always knew my mother was ahead of her time. No matter how she tried she couldn't fit the conventions of her day, and at some point I think she decided to follow her own creative spirit, the heck with the rest of it.

She had a hard life growing up in Mississippi and Tennessee, a daddyless child reared by relatives while her widowed mother worked to support them. She lived in Memphis boardinghouses during the school year, and red-dirt farms through the sticky hot summers. She was painfully thin and even more painfully shy.

Along with other family members, moving to California was like a dream come true.  A heartbreakingly short first marriage haunted her for years. However she became a working girl, a typist for officers and generals at the Marine Corps Air Station in El Toro, CA. She loved her independence and her shiny new Ford.

 Loree (Jobe) Fleming back in the day.........   The Garden Buzz
 

Then a young Marine caught her eye, and he said it was "bells and whistles" when he saw her. My parents were married for over 30 years; their age difference seemed radical back then to many. But my mother was so young at heart and my father so serious, they met somewhere in the middle.

As a mother to a small child in her 40's she had no interest in the young mom's kaffeeklatch. She seemed to find friends in people that needed friends more than herself; a neglected grandfather, an ostracized gay neighbor, the quirky musicians and artists that hung out in our little beach town, Dana Point.

I was more apt to find my mother at her easel painting in the kitchen than baking cookies. She approached every domestic chore with a unique little twist, whether it was sewing, decorating or cooking. She was an early-adopter of recycled objects. Our home had a ship's hatch cover for a coffee table and hanging lamps made of beach glass.

She had a boundless gratitude and awe for nature, I can hear her exclaiming during car rides, "Look at those wildflowers", and then a few seconds later, "Look at those" and on and on. I can see her picking wild blackberries with her bucket and snake stick in hand, her freckly legs all scratched from the thorns. She was mesmerized by the changing colors and light over her beloved ocean and longed to capture it in her self-taught oil paintings.

 
My mother painting in the kitchen (from a college photo assignment)    The Garden Buzz

Her landscaping was equal part plants and rocks plus beach finds. A square of black beach rocks with baby tears moss was an elegant solution to a downspout. She filled large, shallow bowls she made in pottery class with textured succulents. Dry stream beds from rocks she collected from the shore meandered through our windswept flowers. Silvery driftwood acted as sculpture in contrast with the bright, silky petals of ranunuclus. Our yard was never one to sport petunia beds or boring begonias.

Sorry to go on and on. Except that Mother's Day is Sunday and she said it was her most important holiday. She never got to see me as a mother. It's been 22 years and I miss my mom.

The Most Beautiful Flower I Have Ever Grown

Happy 22nd Birthday to my lovely daughter!
 

Exciting News!

The Garden Buzz has received a Silver Award of Achievement for the 2010 Garden Writers Association Media Awards program. The award is in the category of Best Writing in Electronic Media. Woo-hoo!

This award makes The Garden Buzz a candidate for the GWA Gold Awards for Best Talent and Best Product. The winners will be announced at the GWA Annual Symposium held in Dallas this year on September 13.

 

Bits and Bobs from The Garden Buzz

First...

It seems just yesterday that I nervously hit the publish button on my first post. Now after six months and the 50th post, and a few other minor statistical milestones, The Garden Buzz actually has a following, besides my immediate family (although my husband doesn't read it, there are no cars involved, you see)! I really enjoy sharing my perspective and passion for plants and nature with everyone. Thank you for visiting and all the nice compliments.

Second...

I follow another blog called The Perfect Pantry, written by a lovely lady named Lydia. She writes about food and all sorts of fun stuff. She invited her readers to submit a photo of their pantries, perfect or otherwise, for others to see. I had so much fun looking in other people's cabinets, that I offered mine up as well, but I'm afraid it's rather boring in comparison. It's the featured one for today at her site. Oh my.

After seeing the response, I'm tempted to do my own invitation this summer, and ask to see, "Other People's Compost Piles"!

Third...

I have to confess, I've been blogging somewhere else. I recently started a blog with the Star Tribune in the "Your Voices" section online. It's a little different in that I'm supposed to stay local or at least pertinent to the Twin Cities. I'm not very good at this self-promotion thing, in fact, I'm having a little hot flash and turning red just typing this news into the blog template. I promise not to neglect or give short shrift to The Garden Buzz. It is my baby.

 

 

Do Bloggers Get Sick Days?

Today's post has little to do with gardening or nature, but rather the nature of blogging. Apparently there is a phenomenon called blogger's guilt; the act of feeling bad when you can't blog. Although there are many who start blogs and after one way-too-lengthy post and a few half-hearted ones realize they haven't really got that much to say or don't have the self-discipline, and subsequently leave their blogs to languish in the web dust.

Then there's me. I have been described at times as "too responsible". I usually don't commit to what I can't do. I could have been blogging at the big-bang beginning of blogging and be way down the road with this garden blog. But I waited until I knew I could follow through. And it might sound a little egotistical if I think a missing post or two would matter, but there is a tiny growing number of readers who seem to actually like reading my little musings about Mother Nature and all her wonders. And 5% live in Australia, what's with that? But anyway, thanks, mates.

The day is not often when I can't come up with something to say, I only need look out the window to find a topic. But today, I have to say I was leaning toward... I got nothin'. I don't feel so good.

The past few days I've had a scratchy throat and a gunky cough. No big deal. I was running errands yesterday and my husband called. He was home, where was I? He had gone home sick, and since this rarely happens, I was concerned. He was nauseous, could I bring home some 7-Up? So I rushed over to the store and rushed home with the bubbly anti-dote to most of my hubby's infrequent ills. He took three sips and went to sleep, for the next  12 hours. I proceeded to make chicken soup, which he never ate. He got up this morning and pronounced himself cured and left for work. At least I have some soup.

But me. I don't feel so good. I prefer pain over nausea. And I already was sick, I don't want his sickness too. I feel kind of fuzzy like the frozen fog outside today. I may read this later and regret it. I don't think it's too far up on the clever-meter. But I felt like I had to write something.

Maybe I am imagining this eeghh feeling. I saw he had touched my laptop this morning, so I sprayed it with Lysol. And then I was thinking about going to see that Avatar film, and even thinking about a 3D movie makes me woozy. I have kind of gotten intrigued about it, even though it may be like my daughter describes all fantasy movies of that ilk; "just Star Wars in a forest". But I digress.

Last week when I was busy getting everyone in the family off to their own disparate destinations of Missouri, Colorado and Russia, I failed to post my blog a couple times. It made me anxious and a bit cranky. My mother-in-law called to see if I was ok, because she hadn't seen The Garden Buzz. That was very sweet since I am usually the worrier and not the subject of worry. So I posted three times the next week as self-imposed makeup work.

I love blogging. I love the immediacy. I like how I pitch the story to myself, then write it, photograph it, post it and own it. It suits me to a T. Maybe I can get a sick note from myself?

For The Love of Gardening

A lot of folks will be hitting the gym this week, bursting with new resolve and brand new workout gear. But I'm already there. Determined to beat them to it, I started a new health regime in October, I could have waited until January, but it seemed a little cliche, not to mention, crowded. Not wanting to flaunt my flabby body in front of the masses, I figured that the end of October leading up to the holidays would be the slow time at the local spa/gym/wellness and what-have-you center.

Before we left city-living and started moving to all the rural outposts of my husband's career, I was a regular at the gym. I lifted weights, did curls and presses and pounced around in my teal and turquoise spandex. However workout places were few and far between back then in the wilds of western Illinois and central Iowa. I guess I could have gone to the Leisure Centre or the "swimming baths", while in England, but that seemed a waste of precious ex-pat time. Now every small town strip mall sports a Curves or something similar.

Anyway, I told myself, gardening was great exercise. And it is, but it can be irregular and erratic, and downright hard on your body. I have the aches and pains to prove it.

By the time we had moved back to a good-sized city, and there was the hope of some type of permanence, I took to the garden with a vengeance. Yes, I would make sure the kids were fed and clothed, but the garden became my refuge, laboratory, pantry and gym for the next 10 years. There were days when I overdid it beyond overdoing it, not seeking much outside help. On those days I hobbled into the house, muddied and sometimes bloodied by my passion; sore muscles and creaky bones screaming in agony. I guessed I was just getting older.

Fast forward another five years and here I am in middle-age, menopause and Minnesota. Trying to conjure up a pale resemblance to my former garden, my body rebels and refuses to cooperate. It's nice to hire help, but somehow feels like cheating, mostly myself from the fresh air and satisfaction of self-reliance.

So the fitness trainer (a Ph.D in health and wellness) asked me about my goals. I said, "I need to get stronger and fitter, so I can keep gardening. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it." I used to find it funny that people had to work out at a gym when they could just be shoveling compost. But now you can find me three days a week pressing the pounds and walking the walk. I always make sure to get the treadmill with the best view, looking out over the frozen wetlands. I can't garden right now, but I can contemplate the cattails and birch trees while watching for bunny tracks in the new-fallen snow.

The Gift of Gardening

Desperate for gift suggestions? I've got one that might work. You don't have to go out in the cold. There are no malls involved. You don't have to get dressed up. It appeals to procrastinators, (they are the ones reading these gift suggestion articles on December 21) because it can be put off for at least several months.

Instead of a shiny trowel, thorn-proof gloves or a fetching straw hat. Give the actual gift of gardening.

You can decide how. Kind of like those "giving levels" you see on those corporate donor lists or the annual fund, you know, like Mavericks and Rangers, or Ladybugs and Grasshoppers, all euphemisms for Big Spender and Cheapskate. You choose the level of involvement.  You can hand your giftee a package of seeds and your best wishes or you can get down in the dirt. It's up to you, but do you really want to be known as a "pea pod"?

Most gardeners will tell you that they learned, and learned to love gardening from a grandparent. But nowadays grandparents are glitzier; more likely to take Disney cruises than dig potatoes.  Parents are held hostage to hockey/soccer/baseball practice and Chinese/Spanish/French camp. Time outside is organized, heck, those third graders need to polish their resumes, and the front yard is something that must be maintained and managed. With terms like nature-deficit disorder in our language, it's no secret we need a little Mother Nurture.

You can see I was gardening from an early age. "Working in the yard" was what we did. But it was the farthest thing from work. I wasn't made to pull weeds, just allowed to wander and wonder. So make a promise to a child, or a larger person in your life to show them what it is that pulls you to your aching knees and draws you out sometimes before you're dressed. They don't even have to know it's gardening. Just go out and sniff flowers, watch bugs and make mud pies. The seed will be planted.

I've Been Mulched!

But in the best of ways. I was recently asked to be one of the featured experts on The Mulch (www.themulch.com ), a new gardening website with lots of good gardening information and advice. Plant recommendations from experts in the field guide gardeners, experienced and new, to choosing the "right plant for the right place".

Although the site leans heavily toward West Coast gardening, they are expanding their boundaries eastward and beyond, including this Minnesota gardener. I will be their expert for Minnesota and the Midwest, as the bulk of my gardening has been done in that region.

The title of expert is a little intimidating. I am an Extension Master Gardener, however I don't write as a Master Gardener per se. In the spirit of Master Gardeners everywhere I will admit when I don't know the answer, and then go on to find the answer. I learn when you learn.

Finally if you go to my page at The Mulch, you might ask, "What's with the red hair?" For now, to fit the format of the other expert's photos, that one was the best choice. But, yikes, who let me walk around with that flaming shade of auburn? Cooler heads and hair colors have prevailed since! I will try to supply them with a more timely one soon.

In the meantime check out the gorgeous rose in the background. That's my luscious-smelling, exuberant Zepherine Drouhin. An almost thornless climbing Bourbon rose, appropriate for entryways and gates; it will perfume your garden while even tolerating some shade. It adorned the arbor entry to my Kansas kitchen garden, stopping traffic on a regular basis. It's only imperfection; hardy to zone 6, this rose will  have to remain just a fragrant memory for me now.

Zepherine Drouhin rose with Henry clematis in blogger's garden  The Garden Buzz